


our decades in the sun

by toewsin (haroldslouis)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Falling In Love, First Time, Happy Ending, Hotels, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 19:50:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17453198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haroldslouis/pseuds/toewsin
Summary: Jonny looks at him, sees the way the wine stains Patrick’s lips slightly red. He doesn’t know how Patrick does it, how he says exactly the right thing that Jonny can’t put words to. The feeling comes back, the painful jab in his side that reminds him how he doesn’t want to go yet. He wants to stay here, wants to talk to Patrick for longer than the hours they have left.Jonny meets Patrick in 2009, when the team stays at the Kane Regency Buffalo hotel. A love story for the decades (literally).





	our decades in the sun

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a cute lil fic for the Blackhawks Big Fic Energy Amnesty Week, but the wordcount just kept on growing. instead of being a series of vignettes, it now has plot, smut, pining, and a heap of feelings. 
> 
> i couldn't have finished this fic without the amazing support from my beta, cheerleader, and Well of Ideas, [fenweak](http://www.fenweak.tumblr.com). this fic wouldn't have nearly the amount of smut it has now if it weren't for her, so y'all know who to thank lmao.
> 
> the title is from richard dawkins' biography, which contains the quote: "the chances of each of us coming into existence are infinitesimally small, and even though we shall all die some day, we should count ourselves fantastically lucky to get our decades in the sun." it reminded me of everything patrick, jonny, 1988, and the hawks have achieved in the past decade.
> 
> rebloggable photo set [here](http://toewsin.tumblr.com/post/182092137873/our-decades-in-the-sun-by-toewsin-21k)!
> 
> enjoy!♡

_1st of February, 2009_

 

It’s freezing cold in Buffalo. Jonny watches the ice cling to the outside of the windows of the bus, creating starry patterns in the corners. The sun is shining into his eyes, and he tugs the blind down slightly. He’s got _Walk the Walk: the Number One Rule for Real Leaders_ open on his lap, but it lies forgotten, pages fluttering with the movements of the bus. He listens to Seabs and Duncs, who are sitting in the seats behind him. They’re analyzing a piece of game tape on Seabs’ laptop, their voices muted.

The bus comes to a halt in front of the hotel. It’s a new hotel, perfectly located between the HSBC Arena and the highway. Jonny gets out of the bus behind Sharpy, who’s groaning exaggeratedly and stretching his arms over his head.

Jonny digs his toes into the snow, crunching it under his feet. The wind is biting at his cheeks and he pulls up his scarf over his chin. The bus driver walks over to the side of the bus, opening the baggage compartment. He waits for a second, lets the hotel staff and his teammates get to their bags first.

He eventually spots his own bag in the corner, and moves to get it.

“Hey, let me help you with that,” a voice says. The man - a boy, really, given the size of him - ducks into the compartment and tugs Jonny’s bag loose.

Jonny’s ready to mumble his thanks, wanting to get to his room. But then the boy turns towards him, all blue eyes and pink lips. He’s got a mop of blond curls that are moving in the wind, and he gives Jonny a bright smile.

“Here you go,” he says, handing Jonny his bag with a good-natured ease.

Jonny’s eyes are on the boy’s eyelashes, fanning out against his cheeks whenever he blinks. He almost looks ethereal, amidst the snow and bright winter sun. Belatedly, he realizes the boy’s waiting for his reply. “Oh, yeah, thanks.”

“Have a good game tonight,” the boy says, before whipping around and helping the technical staff with their bags.

Jonny walks up to the entrance to the hotel, giving the boy another look over his shoulder. The letters above the door are mostly covered under a thick layer of snow, but he can still make out the name. _Kane Regency Buffalo - Kane Group._

 

_30th of January, 2010_

 

The next time he sees the boy, it’s early in the morning.

 _Too early in the morning_ , Jonny thinks, as he glances at the clock next to him. The red numbers tell him it’s 4 a.m. He’s been lying awake for over an hour, after being shaken from a bad dream. They’d lost the game last night. Every time he closes his eyes, his missed shots - thrice on the bar, God knows how many wide - play on the inside of his eyelids.

They’re flying out at ten, and he heaves himself out of bed. Maybe a quick walk will clear his head, enough to get him to sleep another few hours before he’s stuffed on an airplane again. He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants already, and he tugs his sweater from the back of the chair and puts on a pair of slides over his socked feet.

The light in the hallway goes on when he steps outside of his door, and he makes his way towards the elevator. The elevator’s noise sounds loud in the quiet of the hotel, no doors closing or people talking as they walk down the hallway.

He’s getting used to the peace and quiet, which is why he jumps a little when the doors slide open on the ground floor. The boy with the blond curls is sitting behind the reception, feet up on the desk and a bag of Cheetos in his lap. He’s watching something on the computer, and just when Jonny realizes he’s watching last night’s game, the boy suddenly whips his head around.

“God,” the boy breathes, a hand on his chest, “It’s just you. Jesus, I thought I was gonna get murdered.”

It’s been a while since anyone told Jonny _it’s just you_ , and if he’s honest, it’s a little sobering. He walks up towards the reception and leans his forearms on the wood, peering at the computer.

“You have the worst luck,” the boy says, chewing obnoxiously on a Cheeto. He points at the screen. “I mean, what is that? The second time you hit the bar?”

“Third, actually,” Jonny grunts, leaning his chin on his hand as he watches the replay. His eyes drift towards the boy, who’s wearing black slacks and a white button-down. A name tag is clipped onto the pocket. It says _Patrick_ , but he can’t make out the last name. His eyes trail the movement of Patrick’s throat as he swallows a mouthful of Cheetos.

“You move good, though.”

Jonny yanks his eyes away, fixing them back onto the screen. “Thanks.”

The screen goes to the intermission and Patrick hums, dropping the bag of Cheetos onto the desk and swivelling around to meet Jonny’s eyes.

“So?”

Jonny frowns. “Huh?”

“Why are you here? Phone’s not working in your room? I got extra pillows and blankets right here, I can go get some--”

“No,” Jonny says, shaking his head and holding up a hand. “I don’t need another pillow. I just--”

“Want some food?” Patrick butts in. “I could whip you up some eggs, if you want.”

“No.” Jonny breathes out through his nose. “I couldn’t sleep. So. I just thought I’d take a walk.”

“A walk?” Patrick repeats, looking slightly incredulous.

“Yeah, just around the hallways, the lobby,” Jonny gestures to the space around him. “But I can go back to my room, I get it if you don’t want someone roaming the hotel at this hour.”

“No, it’s fine,” Patrick shrugs. “The hallways are pretty boring, though. There’s a bar and some conference rooms on the thirteenth floor. You should check those out.”

Jonny’s slightly stunned, looking at Patrick’s sincere face. “You’re recommending me more interesting spots for my insomnia walks?”

“I mean,” Patrick shrugs. “You could stick to the hallways, that’s fine, too. Maybe boring is what you need to get some more sleep later. I’ve worked here for ages, I’m way beyond judging guests for what they get up to.”

Jonny lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head a little. “I’ll, uh, stick to the hallways. Thanks for the suggestion, though.”

He raps his knuckles onto the wood of the desk and gives Patrick a two-finger salute. Just as he’s about to turn a corner, Patrick says something.

“Hm?” Jonny asks, standing still.

“The thirteenth floor. Maybe next time,” Patrick repeats, expression neutral. “But you’re gonna score, next time. Aren’t you?”

“You mean next season?” Jonny asks, confused.

“Yeah.” Patrick grins. The he adds, “You better.”

The mischievous smile makes something in Jonny’s muscles relax, and he smiles back. “Of course.”

He continues his walk around the deserted hallways with a light feeling in his chest, the corners of his mouth curled upwards.

 

_30th of November, 2010_

 

He’s a Stanley Cup winner. The feeling is getting closer to familiarity, but he knows he’ll never get used to it. Whenever he does a gig or shows up on TV, they announce his arrival as _Captain Jonathan Toews of the Chicago Blackhawks, winner of the 2010 Stanley Cup and the Conn Smythe._ His mind reels whenever he thinks about it for too long. Still, there’s more to win, and everyone on the team knows it. Feels it.

It might even happen this year. The team has started off well, holding onto a strong first place in the standings. It’s the nearing the end of the year, and they’re setting their sights onto the playoffs. _What if they could do it again?_

They’re currently on their final roadtrip of the year, ticking off the first game against the Sabres tonight.

“C’mon, cappy, let’s go,” Seabs says, clapping his shoulder as they walk down the hallway.

The bus is leaving in fifteen minutes to take them to the stadium, now dubbed the First Niagara Center. There’s a nervous static of adrenaline running through everyone’s veins, an undercurrent of enthusiasm for what is to come in the next couple of weeks.

Jonny’s about to reply, but his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He takes it out and checks the screen.

“Sorry, man,” he tells Seabs, pulling a face. “I gotta take this. I’ll catch up with you, okay?”

“Sure, sure,” Seabs grins, “Send my love, as always.”

“I’m not sending shit,” Jonny retorts, pushing Seabs towards the elevator.

He leans with his back against the wall, pressing the green horn on his phone. “Hey, babe.”

“Hi, Jon.” Ashley’s voice is light. “Getting ready for the game?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m actually supposed to be getting on the bus right now. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” she tells him. She means it, too, which is why he likes her so much. “Just text me once you’re on the bus or something.”

“Yeah, I will,” Jonny says, looking up at the sound of footsteps on carpet.

Patrick is walking down the hallway. He’s wearing dark slacks and a white shirt again, just like last year, but these fit infinitely better. The clothes look expensive and custom made. He’s put on muscle, carrying it in his shoulders and arms. It makes the fabric of the button-down tight around his upper body, and he fills it out nicely. His slacks are secured with a fancy looking belt, and Jonny’s eyes are fixed on his narrow hips.

“Have a good game, Jon,” Ashley says, “Talk to you later.”

“Talk to you later, babe, bye,” he says, ending the call and putting his phone back into the inner pocket of his jacket. He looks up at Patrick, giving him a grin.

“Hey, Pat,” he greets. “Man, it’s been a while, huh? You look good.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says, smiling back at him. “You, too. I guess that’s what a Stanley Cup does to a man.”

Jonny can’t help the proud smile that curls on his face at those words, enjoying the impressed tone in Patrick’s voice. “You saw the final?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, an action that would annoy Jonny if it were done by anyone else. “Yeah, I watched the game. Saw you win that big ass trophy, too, MVP.”

He directs his grin at the floor, the back of his neck heating up. “It was a good game,” he says, smiling back up at Patrick.

“So, off to decimate the Sabres, now?” Patrick asks, putting his hands in the pockets of his pants. The movement draws Jonny eyes downwards, briefly taking in Patrick’s legs and his bulge, before snapping his gaze back up.

“Probably,” he admits. “Sorry for your loss, and all.”

“Nah, it’s fine. We suck.” Patrick shoots Jonny a grin. “You remember what we talked about, last year? When you were sleepwalking through m--through the hotel?”

“I wasn’t sleepwalking,” Jonny says pointedly, giving Patrick an unimpressed look. “But yeah, I’ll score tonight, don’t you worry ‘bout that.”

Patrick holds his hands up. “Alright, alright. I’ll look out for it.”

Jonny’s phone buzzes, and he checks the lit up screen. **WHERE ARE UUUUU** , Sharpy had sent him.

“I, uh, gotta go. The bus is waiting,” he says, pointing somewhere over his shoulder.

He’s not moving though, eyes fixed on the way Patrick drags his tongue across his lower lip, before retracting it and giving Jonny a grin that’s almost filthy.

“It’s not like they’re gonna leave without their captain, right?” he asks, his voice low and his lips curling around the word _captain_.

Jonny swallows, knows that he must look like a deer in headlights. Patrick’s grin breaks further, the moment gone - if it had ever even been there.

“I’m kidding,” Patrick laughs, taking his hands out of his pockets to make a shooing motion at the elevator. “Go. Be awesome.”

It sounds like a challenge, and Jonny clenches his jaw, nodding. “I will. See you.”

“Until next year, Jon.” Patrick says, giving Jonny one last smile before the elevator doors close between them.

Sharpy is clapping when he makes it onto the bus, stomping up the little steps.

“There he is!” he crows, closing his hands around Jonny’s shoulders when Jonny sits down in the seat in front of him. “Where were you? We nearly sent out a search party.”

“I’m only a few minutes late,” Jonny says, shrugging Sharpy’s hands away. “I was just talking to one of the guys on the staff.”

“Uhuh,” Sharpy says, a tone to his voice that lets Jonny know there’s a shit-eating grin on his face. You start to notice those things after spending almost half a decade with someone on the same team. “The blond one, with the curls? Has an awesome name?”

Jonny huffs, turning his body sideway, his legs in the aisle of the bus. He jerks his chin at Sharpy. “You know him?”

“Yeah,” Sharpy nods. “He was behind the bar last night when we arrived. Went for a quick nightcap with Duncs and Seabs, and we spent about an hour talking to him. Kid’s got an enormous hockey brain. He could rattle off all of our stats, from the powerplay to the amount of saves Corey had.”

“Oh?”

“He should’ve gone into sports journalism, he’s better than most of the analysts I know,” Sharpy says, and Jonny hears Duncs humming affirmatively from another row further back.

Jonny shrugs. “He works at a hotel, though. Anyone can learn stats, but you gotta have brains to get the game and be able to analyze it.”

“He has brains, trust me,” Sharpy points out, letting go of the backrest of Jonny’s seat and sinking further into his own.

Jonny turns back in his seat as well, resting his head against the smooth leather. He thinks about Patrick, strutting down the hallways of the hotel in his tight slacks, always talking and laughing with the guests. It’s weird, that he’s become such a fixed thing for him. He’s on the road multiple times a season, sees countless hotels and hotel staff. So why does Patrick stand out? Why do his smile and his gentle lisp stick around in Jonny’s head for so long, until the pace of the hockey season gently fades out the memories - only to reignite them when he sees Patrick again? He chews on the inside of his cheek, rubbing his hands together. He’ll come back to Buffalo with another Cup next year, make Patrick flash that impressed smile again, showing off the dimples in his cheeks. Maybe next year, he’ll ask for Patrick’s number.

The thought is rudely disturbed when Sharpy kicks against the back of his seat, demanding Jonny to look at some pictures of Maddie. He reminds himself that murdering a teammate will stop him from returning to Buffalo, so he turns around and dutifully coos at Sharpy’s phone.

 

_10th of March, 2012_

 

He doesn’t murder Sharpy, but he also doesn’t make it to Buffalo this year. He’d kill himself, if his head wasn’t already doing the job for him.

A concussion, the doctors had told him. He’d known, too. He’d fucking known but he didn’t want to stop. They flew out of the playoffs in the first round, last season, and he wasn’t going to let his team down again. They needed him, their captain, to play his best game. But then he went and bent the hood of his car around a pole on the side of the road. So. Here he is.

Sometimes the headaches get so intense, it feels like his eardrums are going to give out. The heavy snowfall in Chicago has made the natural light even more piercing. He spends most of his days in his bedroom, all of the blinds pulled down until the floor. His mom has been staying in his guest bedroom for about a week now, looking after him and enduring his mood swings. He knows he’s being an asshole, only giving her monosyllabic answers to questions. He has yelled at her multiple times when she’d come into his room with dinner. The smells alone had made his stomach turn and he usually fell asleep on an empty stomach.

He knows his mom is doing a great job, though. On good days, he lets her know that, too. Without her he’d be even more miserable, probably having a stranger around to nurture him back to health. His relationship with Ashley had hit the cliffs a few weeks ago, but he doesn’t miss her, not even now. The only one he lets see him like this - all weak and miserable - is his mom.

Near the end of February, he’s doing slightly better. He’d forced his doctor’s hand, and now they let him watch the highlights of the games that he’s missing. The team is doing alright, Sharpy stepped up to the task like Jonny knew he would. Still, their playoff chances are up in the air, which only increases his urge to get back out onto the ice as soon as possible.

“ _Maman_?” he calls out on Friday. He’s in his bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows. The blinds are up halfway, casting light onto his carpeted floor.

“ _Qu'est-ce que c'est, chérie?_ ” His mom comes walking into the room, holding two steaming cups of tea. It’s the kind that tastes like lawn mower clippings. There’s no caffeine in it, though, which is the only reason he gets to drink it.

“What date is it today?” he asks, taking one of the cups from her hand.

“The twentieth. They’re playing the Sabres tonight in Buffalo,” she says, because she knows that’s what he’s really asking. She must notice the way his face falls, because there’s a slight furrow above her brow when she asks, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Jonny dismisses, shaking his head for a second. It makes the pain behind his temples flare up angrily.

“Okay,” she says, dropping the subject. They’d had plenty of fights already about stuff like this, but now she can tell when it’s something she can let go. “I’m off to do some grocery shopping. Call me if you need anything?”

“Yeah, I will,” Jonny says, sinking a little deeper into the pillows.

“Try to sleep some more,” she says, giving him a gentle smile. She presses a kiss against his forehead and heads out of his bedroom.

After he hears the front door close, he turns over in his bed. Pressing his face into a pillow, he releases the pent up scream into the fabric. Black spots cloud his vision when he straightens, and he feels sweat break out on his back.

He doesn’t know why he feels so affected - so disappointed - that he can’t make it out to Buffalo this year. Patrick’s not his friend. He can count the times they’ve seen each other since that first time on one hand. Still, he wishes that he’d asked Patrick for his number. Just… Something to let Patrick know that he won’t be there this year.

And that’s what he hates the most. It’s going to be a whole year until he sees Patrick again. Twelve months until he sees his blonde curls and his bright smile. Patrick probably already knows Jonny isn’t coming. He follows the Hawks, so he must’ve picked up on the fact that Jonny’s missed four games already. And also the reason why he’s missing the games.

An uncomfortable, warm sheen of shame washes over him and he turns over in his bed. His phone is on the nightstand. As he moves to grab it, his movements are slow. The neverending tiredness is creeping back into his limbs. He knows he should sleep, but sleeping is all he’s been doing lately. Google is quick and effective at finding the hotel, and Jonny quickly scrolls down the site. There’s a little box titled Contact, and he dials the phone number inside of it.

He listens to the dial tone a few times, until the phone’s picked up.

“Kane Regency Buffalo, Patrick Kane speaking. How can I help you?”

The warm feeling of shame is replaced by cold terror and Jonny takes the phone away from his ear, pressing his thumb down on the End Call button repeatedly. He groans in frustration, pushing the pillows behind his back away. He lies down completely, tugging the covers up higher. The remote for the blinds is on his bed somewhere and he feels around for it with his hand. His room fills with a buzzing sound as the blinds sink again, blocking out the light.

He feels the headache fade as he drifts off. Just before he falls asleep, though, he realizes that Patrick had answered the phone with his full name.

 

_2nd of April, 2013_

 

“Seriously, what is up with you?” Seabs asks him, giving him a concerned look.

They’re at the hotel in Buffalo, occupying a few tables with the team. They lost the game in OT, but it’s the end of a long stretch on the road for them in this shortened season. Empty glasses of beer cover the table top, and Sharpy is playing darts with the rookies in the corner of the room.

Jonny drags his eyes away from the door to look at Seabs. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been staring at the door like a crazy person for the entire night,” Seabs says. “What, you waiting for the reaper to come through or something?”

“No,” Jonny scoffs, giving Seabs an unimpressed look. “And I’m not. Staring, that is.”

Seabs gulps down the last of his beer and shrugs. “Alright, fine. I’m gonna go over to Sharpy before he throws a dart into one of the rookies’ eyeballs.”

Jonny also pushes his empty glass away from him and gets up from the table as well. He goes into the lobby, telling himself he’s just going to go up to his room to plug his phone into the charger. He’s not going to look around for a certain hotel employee. There’s no one behind the reception desk, and he feels a childish urge to hammer his fist down on the little silver bell until Patrick shows up.

He doesn’t have to, though, because the doors to one of the fancy dining halls opens up. Sounds of conversation and laughter meet him, before Patrick walks through the doors. He’s carrying a plate of food in his hand and there’s a cook walking next to him. Jonny watches while Patrick discusses the structural integrity of the steak - the fuck? - with the chef, before handing the plate back to the man. As the cook walks off, he suddenly seems to spot Jonny standing a few feet away.

He seems to be shocked into silence for a second, but then he says, “Jon!” A smile breaks out onto his lips. “God, it’s been forever. How are you?”

“Hey,” Jonny says, surprised at the soft tone in his voice. “I’m good, yeah, we just got back from the rink.”

“Thank God that lockout ended, huh? How was the game?” Patrick asks, taking off the white serving gloves, one finger at a time. “I would’ve watched it, but I got two hundred New York Democrats sitting behind those doors. And let me tell you, they’re demanding.”

“Oh, I’m sure. We lost in OT, but it was a good game.” Patrick doesn’t even pretend to look sorry for him, which he likes. “So, uh, how’ve you been?”

Patrick gives him a one-shouldered shrug. “Can’t complain, honestly. Business is picking up, now that the worst of the crisis is over. And I just got my BA in business management.”

“Wow.” Jonny’s surprised. He can tell, somehow, too, in the way that Patrick carries himself. He exudes competence and control, even on a stressful night like this. There’s a layer of stubble on his cheeks, making the jut of his cheekbones even more pronounced. It’s been nearly two years since he’d last seen Patrick, and it’s evident that Patrick had grown up in those years. He’s no longer staring at a young adult, but at a man.

“Yeah, the family’s happy about that, too.” A corner of Patrick’s mouth twists upward, slightly self-consciously.

“Right,” Jonny nods, remembering that he’s looking at Patrick Kane. Heir to the Kane Group, which has about twenty hotels scattered across the US and Canada. “You could’ve said something, you know. I thought you were just slumming it at this job.”

Patrick doesn’t seem taken aback by Jonny’s bluntness. He laughs, scratching at the side of his face. “Yeah, well, I was kinda slumming it in those first few years, not gonna lie. My parents don’t believe in giving out management positions to their children, without us going up through the ranks naturally. Two years before I met you, I was cleaning up dining halls like these.” He points at the doors behind him.

“And now?” Jonny asks.

“Now,” Patrick repeats, splaying his hands wide. “I run this joint, location manager. Got my own office and all. My dad’s been getting older, taking a step back to spend more time with other members of the family.”

“And now the eldest has to step up?” Jonny fills in. It’s jarring how he instantaneously relaxes around Patrick. The nagging annoyance from the loss fades into the background and he feels a pleasant tingle down his spine just standing here, talking to him.

“Not really the eldest,” Patrick says. “Eldest son, yeah, but my older sister Erica runs the Canada branches.”

“Any hotels around Winnipeg?” Jonny asks.

“You wish,” Patrick retorts, giving Jonny a cheeky grin.

“I’ll have you know Winnipeg’s a great town,” Jonny points out. “You should visit it sometime, you’ll see.”

“If I do, will you show me around?” Patrick asks, looking up at Jonny from under his lashes.

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, the indication that Patrick wouldn’t object to seeing him outside of the walls of the hotel. The thoughts that come up are a little jarring, like lazily walking Patrick around the Exchange District and Corydon Avenue, eating at his favorite restaurant with their knees knocking together under the table.

When he doesn’t reply, Patrick’s expression falters for a second, barely recognizable. He points back over his shoulder. “I, uh, I should head back in before the next course is served.”

 _Fuck_ , Jonny thinks. They’re flying out tomorrow. He doesn’t want this to end yet, he needs more of Patrick to make it through another year without him. The realization comes at the same time as he blurts, “Will I see you later?”

The corner of Patrick’s lips curls and he nods. “Yeah, okay. Once the main course is served it’s smooth sailing. I could come to the bar?”

“Perfect,” Jonny says, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Wait, let me give you my number. Just in case anything changes.”

“Yeah, of course,” Patrick quickly nods, taking out his phone from his pocket. He types in the digits that Jonny recites. He opens the door with one hand and says, “I’ll see you in bit,” before heading inside again.

 

\--

 

The clock above the bar is just hitting 11 p.m. when Patrick comes walking into the bar. It’s almost empty, everyone having gone up to their rooms about half an hour ago. Jonny’s sitting on one of the stools, ripping a coaster into pieces. He looks up at the sound, something seizing in his throat at the sight of Patrick.

He’s still wearing the same clothes as before, but the sleeves of his button-down are pushed up to his elbows. His forearms look strong, veins visible under the skin. His hands are working at his tie, untying the knot and letting the silky fabric hang around his collar. Jonny’s once again struck by the way he walks, a confident strut that wouldn’t look out of place on a stage.

“Ah, good, you got my text?” Patrick asks, sliding onto the barstool next to Jonny. He gives a quick salute at the bartender, who’s cleaning tables in the corner of the room.

“Yeah, I got it,” Jonny nods, not adding that he’d been staring at it for the past hour. “Everything good?”

“Perfect,” Patrick answers, looking satisfied. “Happy that another long day is over. And that you’re here, too. And in one piece.”

Jonny catches the reference to his concussion from last year. “Sorry,” he says, feeling like it needs to be said. It doesn’t really make sense, Patrick shouldn’t really care whether Jonny shows up on that one day a year that they’re in Buffalo. But still, somehow he knows that Patrick was - maybe - waiting for him.

“It was a dumb thing you did,” Patrick says, leaning over the bar to grab one of the open bottles of wine. He pours himself a glass and clinks it against Jonny’s beer glass. “I read the news report over breakfast that day. Scared the shit out of me.”

“Me too,” Jonny admits, looking down at his drink and taking another sip. “It was a rough time, but somehow I’m not mad anymore that it happened. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Maybe it taught you something you wouldn’t have learned if it hadn’t happened,” Patrick offers, taking a sip from his wine.

Jonny looks at him, sees the way the wine stains Patrick’s lips slightly red. He doesn’t know how Patrick does it, how he says exactly the right thing that Jonny can’t put words to. The feeling comes back, the painful jab in his side that reminds him how he doesn’t want to go yet. He wants to stay here, wants to talk to Patrick for longer than the hours they have left.

“You’re right,” he says. “It did teach me a lot, it’s making me better.”

“In what ways?” Patrick asks, interested.

“Just,” Jonny gives a small shrug. “It’s easier to let things go. That loss tonight - I would’ve stayed up for hours brooding about it.” Patrick lets out a quick laugh at his choice of words, and Jonny grins. “Yeah, I’d be brooding. Taking it out on myself, in particular. And now it’s just. Not less important, but…”

“Less vital,” Patrick adds. He mirrors Jonny’s smile with is own. “I’ve noticed. Two years ago, man, you were pretty uptight. Remember way back, when you were walking around the hotel in the middle of the night? Just stewing in your misery.”

Jonny laughs, nodding. “Yeah. You told me to go up to the thirteenth floor.”

“Did you?”

“No, actually. Haven’t been yet.”

Patrick downs his wine in a move that tells Jonny that he’s still - deep down - that kid who stuffs his mouth full of Cheetos while wearing his fancy clothes. It makes him feel warm, that he’s able to recall memories about Patrick that seem like a lifetime ago.

“Let’s go then.” Patrick puts the glass back behind the bar and moes off the stool in a way that shouldn’t be smooth, but is. “The grand tour of floor thirteen.”

“What, now?” Jonny sputters, quickly draining his own glass.

“Unless you want to wait another year?” Patrick asks, raising his eyebrows.

That gets Jonny to shake his head real quick. “No, just, show me the way.”

They head out of the bar after Patrick spends a quick minute talking to the bartender, waving a goodnight as the doors close behind them. They pass the reception and the dining hall. There’s a few employees carrying plateaus with lipstick-stained wine glasses and crumpled cloth napkins.

“I’d tell you I normally take the stairs, but that’s a lie,” Patrick says, as he presses the button for the elevator. “The higher up I go, the lazier I get.”

“Are you talking floors or your career?” Jonny chirps, effectively blocking the poke that Patrick tries to land between his ribs.

Patrick huffs. “We can’t all have the motivation of professional athletes.”

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. As Patrick gets in before him, Jonny lets his eyes wander down Patrick’s backside. Patrick might not have the motivation of a professional athlete, but he does look in shape. He can see the muscles in Patrick’s shoulders shift underneath the fabric of his shirt, and Jonny’s seen hockey players with less of a curve to their ass than Patrick has.

He drags his eyes back up in time before Patrick turns to face him. The button for the thirteenth floor light up when he presses it.

“Not superstitious?” he remarks.

“Hm?” Patrick looks confused.

Jonny points at the button. “Floor thirteen.”

“Oh,” Patrick lets out a breathy laugh. “No, my dad thought that’s bullshit. He always gets mad when he stays at hotels that skip that floor. If people have a problem with it, we can usually work things out by giving them a room on a different floor.”

“People actually complain about things like that?” Jonny asks, slightly incredulous.

Patrick gives him a pointed look. “You’ve clearly never worked in the retail or hospitality industry.”

 

\--

 

The following morning, Jonny feels like a walking corpse as he trudges into the bus. He lets himself fall into his chair with a groan, resting his head against the window. Ready to get a quick nap in before they get to the airport, he closes his eyes.

“Morning, cappy,” Sharpy says, very cheerfully and very loud. “Rough night, huh? You stayed longer at the bar than Shawsy did, and I think he’s legally supposed to be in bed by eight.”

“I’m fine, just stayed up too late,” Jonny says. He puts his earbuds in his ears and gives Sharpy a look, daring him to continue talking. But Sharpy knows he hasn’t had his coffee yet, and apparently isn’t eager to die on this hill, so he leaves him be.

Jonny puts on a playlist of calm music, a suggestion from the physio he’d seen during his concussion recovery. He closes his eyes and relaxes into the seat.

If he could’ve gotten less sleep, he would have. But when the clock had been inching towards 2 a.m., he’d yawned and Patrick had all but ordered him to bed. They had been walking through one of the larger rooms that were often used for business meetings, playing basketball with crumpled up paper and the trash can.

As far as nights go, this one’s up there for him, in close proximity to a Stanley Cup night. Patrick’s competitiveness had matched his, managing to throw almost as many balls of paper into the can as he did. While he had just aimed and thrown, Patrick had been calculating the optimal trajectory out loud. That - and the way Patrick crowded into his space every time he managed to get a goal that Jonny didn’t - had made Jonny’s heart jump into his chest.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out and unlocks the screen.

**Have a good flight back, last night was the most fun I had in awhile!**

A smile breaks on Jonny’s face, his fingers twitching with the intention of texting back as soon as possible. Just as he’s typing out his reply, he recognizes his fluttering heartbeat, his burning cheeks, and his fond smile for what they are.

Oh.

Oh, no.

 

_1st of January, 2014_

 

If he were the kind of man that kept a diary, he’d conclude 2013 as a clusterfuck of a year. The lockout, the shortened season, winning the Stanley Cup, and oh, the crashing realization that he’s not straight and might even be having a crush on someone he sees once a year. So. He’s been having some moments, as his therapist likes to say.

He’s dealing with it, the whole not-being-straight thing. And by dealing with it, he means suppressing every thought about it. His therapist also likes to say he’s making steps, but he knows for a damn fact he’s not. If his closet had a hidden passageway into a secret, deeper closet, that’s where he’s currently holing up.

Midnight had struck about fifteen minutes ago, and he’s nearly done making the rounds with “Happy New Year!” hugs and kisses to his teammates and friends. Sharpy, a self-proclaimed great host, is sloppily filling up champagne glasses, the liquid fizzing and sloshing over the rims. Jonny gets a new glass pushed into his hands while he’s talking to one of Abby’s friends.

His mom promised she’d call him around one, so when his phone goes off half an hour later, he picks up without looking at the screen.

“Bonne année, maman, je t’aime.”

It’s quiet for a second on the other line. “Uh, hi.” Patrick’s voice is bright. “I don’t know what you just said, but I’m guessing happy new year?”

Something in Jonny grinds to a halt. While the party goes on around him, he feels stuck in place. He hasn’t heard Patrick’s voice in months, and the sound of it is warming places in his body that he hadn’t realized had frozen over since they last saw each other. They text pretty often, holding up a conversation about inane things at least once a week. Hearing his voice, though, sends Jonny’s mind reeling.

“Jon? You there?”

“Pat, sorry, I thought it was my mom calling,” Jonny quickly says. “Hey. Happy new year.”

“Hey, Jon. Happy new year.” Patrick’s voice is soft. God, Jonny misses him. He suddenly feels it again, the hollow ache in his chest. It had numbed slowly - so fucking slowly - but now it’s back.

“How are you?” he tries not to sound too eager, but he is. He wants to hear about Patrick’s life, how his day was, whether he still drinks the wine that make his lips stain.

“I’m good,” Patrick says. “Business is great, might get promoted if my dad’s feeling generous.”

“You should be,” Jonny quickly replies. “I mean, you’re obviously great at what you do.”

“Thanks. So are you.” He loves that he can hear the smile on Patrick’s face. Hates that he can’t see it.

They talk for a bit, but Patrick’s got multiple New Year’s parties going on at the hotel. They say goodbye, and Jonny feels raw as he pushes his phone back into his pocket. He looks around, noticing his teammates hugging and smiling at their wives and girlfriends. Maybe he should’ve brought someone, too, a friend of someone. It could’ve kept away the empty feeling that is growing in his chest. Outside, fireworks are blasting loudly.

 

\--

 

They don’t stay at the hotel that season. The game is played in February at 3 p.m., and they have a home game the following evening. Jonny’s back on the plane and out of Buffalo before he knows it. Patrick had texted him multiple sad faces a few weeks before the game, but Jonny couldn’t help but feel relieved.

 

_11th of November, 2014_

 

He sees Patrick again in November, as the new season is picking up. He’s in a slump. A motherfucker of a slump. And although he’s better now at this stuff, better at putting hockey in perspective, it’s pretty clear from every perspective that he’s playing like shit. With every game that passes, his focus tightens and tightens. Hockey is all he’s thinking about, even though it’s torture to look at his performance on the game tapes over and over again.

So to see Patrick standing in the hallway as he gets to his room, is both a breath of fresh air and a slap in the face.

He’s talking to Sharpy, clearly messing with him and laughing loudly. Sharpy has his arm slung over Patrick’s shoulder. The sight of it makes something angry erupt inside of Jonny, noticing the way Patrick fits against Sharpy.

Patrick’s eyes widen when he spots Jonny. “There you are,” he smiles. “I was wondering where you were, didn’t see you get off the bus earlier.”

“Yeah, I was watching some game tape,” Jonny replies. He feels his control slip, just by looking at Patrick. It’s not what he needs right now. Hockey, hockey, and only hockey. Those are the three things that matter, and what he needs to focus on.

Sharpy says something to Patrick that Jonny can’t make out, busying himself with the card to his room. The lock clicks to green and he pushes the door open, walking inside. He drops his bag on the king bed in the middle of the room, flicking on the lights.

“So how’ve you been?” Patrick asks, standing in the doorway. “I didn’t really hear from you after we talked about the home opener a few weeks ago. 2010, 2013… You guys should be up for another Cup this year.”

Jonny lets out a snort. “Not with the way I’m playing,” he says, his tone bitter. He sits down on the bed and tugs off his sneakers.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it.” Patrick sounds very matter-of-fact, like he’s not worried about Jonny’s game one bit. “You’ll be back to producing soon enough.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jonny says, not wanting to have this conversation. He changes the subject. “The hotel looks nice.”

“We hired someone two months ago to redecorate it,” Patrick says, looking around the hotel room. “It turned out better than I hoped.”

“Business going good, huh, if you’re redecorating? Still on track for that promotion?” Jonny asks, taking off his sweater. He notices Patrick looking when he’s pulled the fabric over his head. The hem of his shirt had crept up towards his bellybutton, and he tugs it down.

“I have the Hawks Instagram to thank for that. Seriously, reservations go through the roof each time the hotel’s tagged in a picture.” Patrick gives him a smile. “As for the promotion, the decision’s between my parents and my granddad, and they’re always pretty tight-lipped about this stuff.”

“Have they seen this already?” Jonny gestures around the room. “Oughta help, right?”

Even in the dim light of the hotel room, he can see the rosy tint to Patrick’s cheeks as he ducks his head a little and smiles. It makes him think - hope - that maybe he’s not alone in this, maybe Patrick is also dealing with this attraction between them.

They talk some more about what they’ve been up to, even though Jonny knows he shouldn’t. His feelings for Patrick are right back where they were last year, at the forefront of his mind and making his heart beat erratically.

“What time are you guys flying out tomorrow?” Patrick asks. He’s sitting on the edge of one of the chairs near the TV, the fabric of his pants tight around his thighs.

“Early,” Jonny says, walking into the bathroom to put his toiletry bag on the little glass shelf above the sink. He looks at his reflection in the mirror, notices his own cheeks are red, too. He hears Patrick say something, but he can’t make it out. Walking back into the room, he asks, “What?”

“If you wanted to grab a drink at the bar after,” Patrick asks, giving him a smile that feels familiar, intimate. “Like last year? I promise I won’t kick your ass at paper basketball again.”

Jonny swallows, picking up his tablet and fiddling with the case. He props it up on the desk, the screen lighting up and still frozen on a goal celebration by Ellis. He’d love to. A few moments with Patrick relaxes him more than anything. Another night like last year would easily be the highlight of the month for him.

“I don’t know,” he says, grimacing a little. “The game ends pretty late and I should review it before heading to bed.”

Patrick’s face falls, the bright spark in his eyes dimming. He sees it clearly, wants to say, ‘No, never mind. Let’s do it,’ but he doesn’t. He needs to focus on his game right now, and avoid the distracting feelings that come in the wake of Patrick’s presence.

“Yeah, uh, of course,” Patrick nods, quickly recovering. He points at the screen of Jonny’s laptop. “When you score tonight, you should do that celebration. It’s cool.”

Jonny looks back at the screen and snorts. “The one by Ellis? He won’t be happy about that.”

“He’s a dick,” Patrick shrugs. “But I get it if you’re too chicken to do it.”

“Hey,” Jonny protests, but he’s smiling. Patrick certainty about his performance makes him feel a little lighter.

Patrick puts his hands on his knees, getting up from the armrest of the chair. “I should get going.” He walks past Jonny towards the door, giving his arm a brief squeeze above the elbow. “Good luck tonight, Jon.”

“Thanks,” he replies, keeping his eyes on the door after Patrick closes it behind him. He lifts up one hand to rub at the skin where Patrick touched him, goosebumps breaking out.

 

\--

 

He’s nearly vibrating out of his skin when they get back to the hotel that night. They won 2-1, and he’d scored the goal that had given them the lead. It already seems like a distant dream, the way the puck had connected with his tape perfectly. How he’d fired it into the top corner of the net, briefly clinking against the bar. The rush of his racing heartbeat in his ears had nearly drowned out the noise of the crowd as he’d celebrated.

The entire team is rowdy and loud as they come back to the hotel that night. It’s as if Jonny’s slump had been weighing on them all - and maybe it had - and the invisible burden has now been lifted. He lets his teammates crowd towards the bar, talking and laughing amongst themselves.

He goes up to his room, taking the stairs two at a time. The room is quiet when he walks in, plugging his phone into the charger by the bed. As the battery starts blinking on the screen, he starts it up.

He sends a message to Patrick as soon as the home screen pops up. **You at the hotel?**

Patrick’s reply comes quickly. **yep just finished up a meeting. Great game!!!!**

 **Come up to my room?** Jonny types, his fingers skipping nervously over the letters.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, when he’d told Patrick earlier that day that he wouldn’t see him again tonight. But now… Now he just _wants_. He doesn’t want to make himself stop, just wants to indulge - wants Patrick to be here. It wouldn’t feel right to just go downstairs and meet Patrick at the bar. He doesn’t think he’d be able to keep a straight face in front of all of his teammates.

There’s a knock on the door a few minutes later, and Jonny walks over to open it. Patrick’s on the other side, giving him a smug look. “Told you.”

His eyes widen when Jonny all but pulls him into the room by his arms and closes the door behind him. Their bodies are close together, chests almost touching. Jonny can see the little specks of green in Patrick’s eyes.

“Jon?” There’s a question in it, but the actual question doesn’t follow. Patrick’s eyes dart down towards Jonny’s lips, wetting his own bottom lip with his tongue.

Jonny brings his hand up, cupping Patrick’s jaw. His thumb moves across Patrick’s cheek, where a permanent five-o’clock shadow now lives. It amazes him, how he can track all the miniscule changes over time on Patrick’s face alone. It’s in his stubble, but also in his hairline and the skin around his eyes. He’s still beautiful. Always has been.

The same voice that urged him tonight to take the shot - _take it, take it, take it!_ \- is now telling him to lean in. To stop resisting.

He catches Patrick’s gaze landing on his lips again, sees the little twitch of his mouth, and he knows he’s not alone in this. And that is what makes him close those last few inches between them.

Patrick lets out a sharp breath before their lips connect. His mouth feels plump against Jonny’s, fitting softly together. He brings up his other hand to cup Patrick’s cheeks, his fingertips sliding into Patrick’s hair. The curls are soft against his skin, tickling the backs of his fingers. His own lips are slightly chapped, but the wet press of Patrick’s mouth smooths them out. The feeling of finally having Patrick’s body so close against his own makes him go light-headed, wanting more.

Patrick’s hands have found their way in Jonny’s neck, a thumb on his jaw tugging his face down a little. His lips part on a breath and Patrick drags his tongue against his bottom lip, pressing, asking. Jonny opens his mouth, a noise spilling from his throat when Patrick delves his tongue inside. It’s warm and wet, and moves around Jonny’s tongue deftly. He only thinks about getting closer to Patrick, wanting to taste more, and he crowds Patrick’s body against the door.

“Ungh,” Patrick breathes, when his back suddenly connects to the door. He’s grabbing at Jonny’s shirt, fingers sliding in between the buttons to tug him back in. It feels like falling into a void, letting himself be dragged back into the kiss.

He slides his hands through Patrick’s hair again, feeling his dick twitch when Patrick makes a happy noise against his mouth. Patrick’s tongue is slick, moving messily against Jonny’s. Thumbing at the skin underneath Patrick’s jaw, Jonny tilts back Patrick’s face. A hot feeling moves through his stomach when Patrick has to stand on his toes to keep their mouths connected. Patrick’s not tiny, but he is small, especially close against his body like this.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on his chest and Patrick moves his head to the side, disconnecting their mouths.

“Fuck,” Patrick says, breath coming out a little harsh. He still has his hand on Jonny’s sternum, and he threads the other one through his mussed-up curls.

Jonny takes a step back, the reality of the moment sinking in. He regains the feeling of the hotel carpet under his socks, of the light whirring motion that’s been going on outside. Dread sinks heavily into his stomach. He takes a brief look at the floor, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trackpants to stop himself from reaching out to Patrick again.

Patrick’s wide eyes are looking at him, his lips bitten rosy. “What the fuck was that?”

He can’t help but flinch a little. “I… shit, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” Patrick says, dazedly. He moves away from the door and sinks into one of the chairs, fingers digging into the arm rest. “You know you pretty much ambushed me, pulling me into the room like that, right?”

“Yeah.” Jonny grimaces, realizing what a fucking terrible move it would’ve been had Patrick not kissed back. But he had. _He had._ “ _Criss.”_

“Stop stressing. I didn’t exactly push you away or tell you no, did I?”

“You didn’t say yes, either.” Jonny sinks down onto the edge of his bed, propping his elbows onto this knees and letting his head drop into his hands. “Fuck, I thought - you were looking at my mouth. I thought you wanted it, too.”

“I did.”

Jonny looks up, knows that he must look like a mess. “Then why’d you stop?”

“Because you’re Jonny freakin’ Toews!” Patrick says, his voice hitching on the last name. “Last time I checked, you were straight as an arrow and dating hot blondes from Chicago. And with the way you behaved earlier - excuse me for being a little shocked that you all of a sudden want to kiss me.”

“Not all of a sudden,” Jonny mumbles. At Patrick’s confused look, he sighs. “I wanted to kiss you for a while, okay? I’m dealing with it.”

Patrick lets out an incredulous snort. “Pulling me into your room and kissing me is dealing with it?”

“It’s not going very well,” he snips, rubbing at his eye.

“So, what’s this? I turned on your gay? You just needed to get it out of your system?” There’s a frown above Patrick’s eyebrows, and his eyes are hard. But he’s still here. He hasn’t punched Jonny in the face yet, telling him to go fuck himself.

“You didn’t turn on my gay,” Jonny retorts, pulling a face. “I’m pretty sure I’m bi, it’s just… It’s not that easy to explore these things when there’s a camera in your face during most parts of the day, and everyone in the city knows your name.”

Patrick’s mouth twists in sympathy, but his eyes stay closed off. “That’s true. So you just kiss me, figuring I won’t talk.”

He can feel the coldness from Patrick’s demeanour, so foreign that it makes his mind race. “You can’t tell anyone,” he says, a tone of furious desperation in his voice. “I swear to God, I’ll...”

“Why would I?” Patrick asks, frowning.

But Jonny’s rational mind is gone, sheer panic having taken over. He can already see the front pages, the mocking puns on the Deadspin headlines. The disappointed looks on everyone’s faces, from the board, Q, his teammates. His parents.

“I swear to God,” he says again, his voice shaking a little. “I’ll fucking... “

“Fucking what?” Patrick challenges, clearly getting angry as well.

“I’ll make ‘em change hotels,” Jonny blurts, feeling his frantic heartbeat in his throat. He tightens his fingers on the bedspread. “No more fucking Instagram posts. If the reservation’s go down, you won’t get that promotion you want.”

It’s a threat, clear as day. Patrick clearly recognizes it, too, because he stands up, looking furious.

“Fuck you, _Jonathan_ ,” he says, saying Jonny’s name as if it’s disgusting to him. “I won’t fucking out you, you can be sure of that. But _you_ \- you fucking stay away from me.” With those words, he stands up from the chair in a quick motion, stalking over towards the door. He doesn’t slam it, which somehow makes it even worse.

 

-

 

 **I’m sorry** , he types the following morning. **I would never do anything to hurt your career, I promise.**

Surprisingly, Patrick’s reply comes quickly. **Me neither.** Then, a second after, **delete my number.**

 

\--

 

It’s surreal, winning the Stanley Cup for the third time. On home ice, too. He’s accosted from all sides after the game, reporters flocking around him, asking him how it feels, what he was thinking during the game, what it is like to be at the pinnacle of his life. It shakes him to a stop, in the middle of the Soldier Field rally. While the immense crowd is singing along to Chelsea Dagger, he looks around. He stares off into the sea of red, confetti swirling around him and his teammates. The Cup - with his name engraved on it three times - glitters in the sunlight.

The pinnacle of his life.

 

\--

 

He sits in the chair, looking at the vase filled with tulips on the small table.

“So what are you missing then?” Camille asks, looking at him over the rim of her glasses. The tip of her pen rests on the page of her notebook. “Beautiful house, good job, three Stanley Cups. What else do you want?”

Jonny sighs, averting his eyes to the hardwood floor. He rests the side of his head against his hand. “I don’t know.”

 

_16th of October, 2015_

 

Jonny can tell that it’s busy when they get back to the hotel, looking out of the window of the bus. Women in fancy dresses flock through the foyer, talking and laughing amongst each other as they head into the main dining room. Men in tuxedos are smoking cigars on the patio, ice cubes moving around in their whiskey glasses. Q is telling them to move through the back entrance to avoid any chaos.

As he gets out of the bus, he thinks he sees a quick flash of Patrick through the glass walls. He walking swiftly through the crowd and Jonny cranes his neck a little to keep up with him, but Patrick vanishes behind the doors of the dining room. He grabs his bag and follows his teammates inside, looking around to see whether Patrick will reappear somewhere near him.

He has to apologize. Over the summer, he’d combined a rigorous off season training regime with weekly therapy sessions, working on his physical and mental health at the same time. Talking to Camille had made him realize that he’d been at his lowest point when he’d threatened to deal a blow to Patrick’s career if Patrick let anything slip about his sexuality. Slowly, they’d worked through all his internalized issues, and an apology had formed in the notes app on his phone. She also helped him set up three goals to reach before the end of the year, which are coming out to someone close to him, countering anti-LGBT talk and rhetoric in the dressing room, and apologize to Patrick.

He’d come out to Sharpy and Abby when they were all in town for the convention. Abby had taken it amazingly, and while Sharpy had made a joke at first - he had also pulled him into his arms and promised him nothing would change between them. His parents had been up next, but both of them weren’t really that surprised. “You never talked about any girl like you talked about Oshie,” his father had teased him, effectively removing any tension he’d still been carrying in his shoulders.

In November, he has a meeting with some of the front office people to discuss improving the Hawks LGBT-support. Camille had offered the idea that it could be an opportunity for him to tell them he’s bi, but just the idea already makes anxiety sweats break out across his body. Still, he’s thinking about it.

That leaves Patrick, and the apology he deserves. He’s been trying to catch a glimpse of him today, after they’d come in yesterday afternoon. Patrick’s pretty close to some guys on the team, but he hasn’t showed his face yet. With him flying out tomorrow morning, time is running out to find Patrick.

That is why he dumps his bag and coat in his room, making his way back down the stairs hurriedly. He tries to steer clear of the party guests and the waiters, flocking in and out of the foyer and the dining hall. He’s about to ask someone at the reception, when he hears a voice behind him.

“--third course is served. If anything goes wrong, Jess, you call me. But I’m counting on you to handle these kind of evenings, okay?”

Patrick is talking to a young woman, her brown hair tied into a bun. They’ve got the same pull around their mouths as they talk, and Jonny realizes it must be his sister. She takes the tablet from Patrick’s hands and disappears behind the dining hall’s doors.

He watches as Patrick takes out his phone, tapping on the screen. Jonny drinks in the sight of him, completely still. Patrick’s hair is shorter, only a hint of curl near the nape of his neck. He’s wearing a blue suit with a white button-down. The top buttons are undone, showing off the hollow of his throat. His dark gray shoes gleam under the overhead light.

“Pat,” Jonny says, his voice coming out a little strange.

Patrick’s head snaps up at the sound. The suit illuminates the blue of his eyes, and he looks perplexed to see Jonny standing there. His expression is gone in a flash, replaced by a neutral stare.

“Jonathan,” he replies. He is overly formal as he tucks his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Glad to see the Hawks back here.”

“Um, yeah, of course we’d be,” Jonny nods. He’s feeling jittery with all the things he wants to say to Patrick, but it’s not right. Not here, not like this - with Patrick looking at him dismissively as if he’s just another guest at the hotel.

“Hm,” is Patrick’s only reply to that. He clears his throat and fastens a button on his jacket. “I have to go prepare a conference room for tomorrow. It’s been good seeing you, have a safe trip back.”

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Patrick is brushing him off, clearly having seen enough of him already. Jonny panics, catching up with Patrick as he walks to the elevator. “Let me walk with you?” he asks.

Patrick turns to look at him, and everything in his eyes and his stance betrays what he wants to say to that. But he doesn’t, just gives him a little shrug as he steps into the elevator. Jonny follows, and he catches Patrick pushing in the button for the thirteenth floor. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, as memories from the last time they went to that floor come flooding back. If only he hadn’t said the things he’d said, then it wouldn’t be like this. Then they could’ve gotten a drink and play paper basketball again, and he could’ve talked to Patrick about his sexuality during a normal conversation. But it’s clear by Patrick’s silence and the distance between them that there is no ‘them’ anymore. The kiss, Jonny’s harsh words, and the quiet click of Patrick closing the door is what stands in between them, an invisible wall of anger and hurt.

They get to the thirteenth floor, and they pass a cleaning lady on their way to the conference room. She gives them a friendly greeting, blushing at the charming smile Patrick sends her. While Jonny knows his inner turmoil must be written across his face, Patrick is as composed and calm as ever. He just has to get this over with, give the apology to Patrick and hope that his feelings for him aren’t clear as day while he does it.

The conference room is quiet and neat, the wood of the U-shaped table top smooth. Jonny hovers by the door while Patrick starts plugging in wires into the projector.

“Why are you here, Jon?”

Patrick’s voice is level and clear, and he doesn’t look at Jonny.

“I wanted to apologize,” Jonny says, pushing his hands deep in the pockets of his track pants. He curls his fingers into his palms. “Last time...I said some terrible stuff to you, and I - I’ve been working on it, and I realize I can’t move on without apologizing to you for it.”

He sees Patrick look up briefly, their eyes meeting across the room. Jonny pushes down to urge to cross the space, take Patrick back into his arms. He wants to taste his lips again, drink in the smell of his cologne and the musk of his skin. But it would only make things worse, so he stays put by the door.

“What have you been working on? And trying to move on from?” Patrick asks. He sounds bitter. “Being attracted to guys?”

“No, not at all,” Jonny says, quickly. He takes a deep breath, knows he has to do it now. “I’m working on accepting it, that I’m not straight, and that it’s okay for me to be attracted to guys. But I can’t move on in this process without apologizing to you. It was fucking nasty, what I said to you, threatening your job. And being a closeted athlete is not an excuse for it, I was an asshole and I shouldn’t have dragged you into my mess.”

Patrick stops peering at the buttons on the beamer, straightening up and meeting Jonny’s eyes. “Alright. Apology accepted,” he says, twirling a plug around between his fingers.

It startles him a little, the sudden, matter-of-fact acceptance of his apology. He hadn’t expected it, thought that he’d have to do more. Explain more, grovel more. But Patrick’s not asking for that, it seems.

“So you’re okay with being bi?” Patrick suddenly asks, looking at him as if he’s sizing him up. He walks closer, sitting down on the desk across from Jonny. He’s within reach now, Jonny realizes, his fingers twitching to reach out. It makes him feel hot, warmth breaking out in the nape of his neck.

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” he says, slightly unsure. “I mean, after winning the Cup again, I didn’t feel right. Like I wasn’t able to fully enjoy it and recognize it for what it was. Over the summer, I worked with a therapist and came out to some people close to me. It’s - it’s been hard, but really good, too.”

“Oh.” Patrick seems a bit taken aback, surprised, maybe. “Congrats, by the way. On the Cup.”

“Thanks,” Jonny nods. “It was insane, winning it in Chicago.”

“Yeah?” There’s a hint of smile tugging at the corners of Patrick’s mouth.

“Yeah,” he nods, letting out a soft laugh - partially in relief at Patrick changing the subject, and also at the crazy memories bubbling back up. “Sharpy got so drunk he fell down a flight of stairs at Duncs’ house. He’d been mattress surfing with some of the rookies. Broke a finger and didn’t realize it until the next day.”

Patrick snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. “God, he fucking would, wouldn’t he?”

Jonny smiles along, taking in the sight of Patrick’s smile and the crinkles around his eyes. God. It still shakes him to the core, the want surging up inside of him at everything Patrick does.

“It wasn’t just him,” he says. “The entire team got up to some fucked up shit during those few days.”

“You did, too?” Patrick asks.

Jonny nods. “Yeah, I did.”

Patrick holds his eyes for a second, before averting them and briefly looking around the room. “I bet everyone wanted a piece of Captain Jonathan Toews,” he says. His face is neutral, but something in his voice suggests differently.

“I mean…” Jonny starts, but Patrick looks back at him, cutting him off.

“They did, didn’t they? I’ve heard the stories, people offering themselves up left and right for hockey players that win the Cup. Women and men.”

Jonny’s confused by Patrick’s words. His eyes are dark and his voice has taken on a low tone. He catches sight of the clench in Patrick’s jawline, and realizes it for what it is. Patrick’s jealous. Of what, he doesn’t really know. Of all the sex Jonny had been offered as a Stanley Cup champion? Of becoming a Stanley Cup champion in the first place? It’s mesmerizing to see it in Patrick’s eyes, and he just knows he wants more of it.

“Yeah,” he says, trying for a casual tone. The lie falls off of his tongue easily. “All the alcohol definitely ruined my memory, but it was good. Just another way of releasing the tension from the games, you know. I wasn’t gonna say no.”

Patrick stands up from the table, coming in a little closer. And yes, now he’s sure that Patrick’s jealous. His shoulders are tense and his movements are slow, deliberate, and he’s looking at him intently. It makes something hot curl low in Jonny’s stomach, and he moves over to lean against the wall.

“You weren’t gonna say no, huh?” Patrick repeats, having come close enough so Jonny can feel his breath on his skin. “You just...let them have their way with you.”

Jonny realizes he’s being boxed in by Patrick, his back flat against the wall. One of Patrick’s hands is braced on the wall next to his shoulder. From this close, he sees the swoop of Patrick’s eyelashes, the tight, perfect fit of his suit, and the stubble on his cheeks. He breathes in, feeling lighter already.

“Not entirely,” he brings out, managing to keep a smug smile off of his face when Patrick’s eyes darken. “There wasn’t any time, you see. Couldn’t be gone for too long, or people would’ve start to notice.”

Patrick drags his tongue across his bottom lip, nodding absentmindedly. “Of course,” he says, mildly. The steady hand he drops in Jonny’s side, though, betrays his nonchalant words. Jonny can feel the warmth of Patrick’s palm through the fabric of his shirt. His cock twitches in his briefs.

Patrick notices, his eyes falling to Jonny’s crotch before dragging them back up. A smirk plays around his lips. “I gotta say, I get it.” He slides his hand from Jonny’s side to his stomach, the other still firmly against the wall. “A drunk Jonathan Toews, with his shirt open to here,” he briefly lets his pinky drop in Jonny’s belly button, “and looking like a walking wet dream. I get that they all wanted to get down on their knees.”

Just the image that Patrick’s painting is enough to send more blood down to his cock, now fully hard. Patrick’s getting off on it too, eyes dark and possessive. But he doesn’t know, doesn’t know that it hadn’t happened.

“No,” he mutters, “They didn’t get on their knees.” _No man ever has_ , he mentally adds.

“No time, huh?” Patrick fills in, his hand sliding lower. He briefly fingers the hem of Jonny’s t-shirt before moving down in a quick move, grabbing Jonny’s cock through his pants. He leans in close, lips barely touching Jonny’s. “Fuckin’ shame.”

“Fuck,” Jonny grits out between his teeth, the pressure of Patrick’s hand against his cock already making him light-headed.

“I’m sure the mediocre handjobs they gave you were fine,” Patrick says, as if he’s talking about the weather. His voice drops when he uses his other hand to tip Jonny’s chin up. “But a Cup win deserves more.” The grin he gives Jonny isn’t warm, or friendly. It’s filled with lust and jealousy.

He lets his head fall back against the wall, not even sure what Patrick’s suggesting. He’s nodding though, letting out a muttered, “Yeah,” between his lips.

Patrick’s hands move away from his cock, his fingers curling around the waistband of Jonny’s track pants. He tugs them over his hips, dragging his briefs down, too. The cold air hits Jonny’s cock as it bobs free, the wet head leaving a smear of pre-cum on his shirt. He slightly jumps when he feels Patrick’s hand circle around the base of his cock. He opens his eyes just in time to catch Patrick get on his knees.

The first lick to his cock is electrifying and he bites down on his bottom lip. A second lick doesn’t come, though, because Patrick is leaning back and shrugging out of his suit jacket. Even on his knees, he looks perfectly in charge, and it does something to Jonny.

Patrick throws the jacket onto the conference table behind him, the fabric sliding across the table top. He brings his hand back up, circling Jonny’s cock with his fingers. The foreskin moves with every drag of his hand, pre-cum gathering at the head.

Jonny knows he lets out a sound when Patrick takes the head of his cock into his mouth, hears it filling the room. The slick heat around his cock is unlike anything he’s ever felt before, and his hips jerk forward instinctively, seeking more of it.

Patrick pulls back, clearing his throat. “Stay still,” he orders, lips slick with spit and Jonny’s pre-cum. “I need some time before you can fuck down my throat.”

Jonny grits out a moan between his teeth, balling his fists against the wall when Patrick takes his cock into his mouth again. Patrick’s tongue is hot and strong, moving around the shaft expertly. He looks at the way Patrick’s cheekbones are sharp and pronounced as he hollows out his cheeks, sucking the head of Jonny’s cock down his throat.

“Fuck, Pat,” he breathes, one hand coming to rest at the nape of Patrick’s neck. His fingers curl in the short curls. While he’s not putting any force behind it, Patrick opens his eyes and looks at him. Just that sight nearly does him in - Patrick down on his knees with his red lips stretched wide around Jonny’s cock, his watery blue eyes staring up at him - and Jonny lets his head thunk back against the wall.

He lets himself fully sink into the feeling, moaning when the head of his cock hits the back of Patrick’s throat. Patrick sucks him down, his throat constricting around his cock like a hot, slick vice. He can feel the sharp little breaths coming from Patrick’s nose against the skin of his stomach, making him shiver.

“Shit,” he bites out, when Patrick pulls back. Patrick licks at the slit, tongue sliding around the spongy head. “Pat, fuck - you’re so fucking good at this.”

Patrick widens his lips, teeth against the head of Jonny’s cock as he grins. He knows it, knows what he’s doing to Jonny, and that just makes it even hotter when he slides his mouth back down on his cock.

“I’m close,” Jonny pants, fingers twitching around Patrick’s curls.

Patrick brings his hands up, circling Jonny’s wrists as he directs Jonny’s hands into his hair. Figuring that’s the permission he was waiting for, he clenches his fingers down in Patrick’s hair and tugs. His cock slides another inch deeper into Patrick’s throat, and the moan Patrick lets out nearly sends him over the edge.

He keeps his grip tight as he feeds his cock into the heat of Patrick’s slick throat, his balls hitting the stubble on Patrick’s chin. The pressure is building, and he feels the muscles in his stomach tensing up. There’s wetness gathering in Patrick’s eyes, his cheeks flushed nearly as red as his swollen lips.

“Gonna cum,” Jonny grits out from between his teeth, fingers shaking from the pleasure of driving his cock down Patrick’s throat.

The moan that Patrick gives him makes him shiver, and he taps Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick doesn’t back away, flattening his tongue against the underside of Jonny’s cock.

He realizes Patrick wants to swallow and curses out loud. Everything tenses up and his balls clench. He’s cumming, fat ropes spurting from his cock. Patrick drinks it down, moving his tongue in a beckoning motion as he hollows his cheeks. He laps up the last drop before sliding his lips off of Jonny’s cock, leaning back on his heels. Jonny’s hands slide away from his curls.

“Jesus,” Jonny pants, fully leaning against the wall. His heart hammers in his chest, and he feels a drop of sweat trickle down his temple.

He instinctively holds out a hand for Patrick, who takes it. Patrick lets out a groan when his knees pop, pressing his body against Jonny. He feels the hard line of Patrick’s cock through his pants, and he _wants_.

Patrick brings his hands down to open his fly. He unbuttons a few of the small buttons on his briefs, pushing his cock through the hole. Just the sight of Patrick’s fat cock makes Jonny’s mouth water, his legs ready to cave out.

“God,” Patrick groans, taking in the sight of Jonny. His voice is rough, sounding a little raw. “You’re so fuckin’ needy, huh? Do all the boys in Chicago know you get like this when you have your dick sucked?”

Jonny’s cheeks flush, and he shakes his head. He yearns to reach out, to take Patrick’s cock in his hand.

But Patrick just shoots him another filthy grin. “Nah, they don’t, do they? Only I know how you sound when you wanna cum down a throat.”

Jonny watches as Patrick begins to jerk himself off, and he feels his mouth go dry. Patrick’s showy about it, thumbing at the head of his cock and circling his hand down to the thick base.

“Shit,” Patrick breathes out, one hand steady on Jonny’s waist. “Not gonna last long.”

Patrick getting worked up over sucking Jonny off is one of the hottest things he’s ever seen and he can’t help but nod, muttering a soft, “C’mon.”

The slapping sound of skin on skin grows louder, Patrick letting out these little noises between his teeth that make Jonny’s cock give a feeble twitch.

“Pull up your shirt a bit,” Patrick pants, eyes darting down to the hem of Jonny’s t-shirt.

Jonny pulls it up to his sternum, baring his stomach to Patrick. His abs tense in anticipation, knowing Patrick is looking at him. Getting off to him.

“Always tan,” Patrick mutters, a hint of softness in his voice. He closes his eyes for a second.  “Keep your shirt up, gonna cum on you.”

“ _Fuck,_ yeah, do it.” Jonny holds up the hem, pulling Patrick closer with his free hand. Patrick’s hand bumps against Jonny’s stomach on every upstroke, the head of his cock smearing wetness across the skin.  

“Gonna--,” Patrick breathes, but he doesn’t finish his sentence. Cum spurts from his cock, splattering against the skin of Jonny’s stomach. It drips down, and the last few ropes coat his pubes and his cock. Patrick pumps his cock a few more times, pressing the head just below Jonny’s belly button.

“Jesus,” Jonny says, weakly. He leans back against the wall.

Patrick is breathing heavy, too. His movement are shaky as he pushes his cock back into his boxers, hitching his pants back over his hips. Jonny pulls up his own track pants, but keeps his shirt up. The cum is drying on his stomach, and he catches Patrick looking at it, eyes dark.

He gives Patrick a once-over. His pants are creased, and his lips are plump and red. His hair is a mess, sticking out. Jonny reaches out a hand, wants to flatten it. He doesn’t though, lets it hover in mid-air.

Are they okay now? Patrick had accepted his apology, way before they even...did this. But he hadn’t sounded like he truly gave it much thought.

His eyes fall on Patrick’s lips again, realizing that he hasn’t kissed Patrick yet. Patrick’s had his cock in his mouth but a kiss seems risky, off limits. When Patrick meets his eyes again, Jonny makes sure to look away from his mouth. It won’t help, getting ideas again. Patrick clearly sees this - him - as an easy fuck, and if he were to lean in for a kiss, he thinks Patrick might even push him away. The thought hurts.

Patrick meets his eyes again and gives him a smirk. He reaches out to pull the hem of Jonny’s shirt down. Jonny’s glad it’s a black shirt, concealing any wetness that could stain the fabric. Patrick’s hands linger, his thumb rubbing across Jonny’s hipbone.

Just when Jonny’s gathered enough courage to cover Patrick’s hand with his own, Patrick pulls it away. He takes a step back.

“I should go back down,” he says. His eyes flit over Jonny’s body again. “Jess will be wondering what’s taking so long.”

Jonny ignores the sting in his chest at the clear dismissal. He gives Patrick a jerky nod. “Yeah, of course. It’s a - it was good, seeing you again.”

“It was more than good, c’mon,” Patrick grins, teasing him. And while he’s fine with it - fine with the fact that he’d just been jerked off on by a guy - hearing Patrick make light of it makes something sharp twist in his stomach. Like it meant nothing to him, like he’s just a quick and easy way to get off. He casts his eyes down, studying the carpet. His face must betray too much emotion right now, and he doesn’t want to see the recognition, the pity on Patrick’s face when he notices it.

“None of those Chicago twinks did it like that, hm?” Patrick nudges, pressing his tongue in his cheek in a suggestive manner.

“No,” Jonny says truthfully, briefly meeting his eyes before taking another look at the floor. “They didn’t.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Patrick gives him a smile and a tap against his side, dismissive in his touch, before he moves away.

Jonny stares straight ahead, hears himself say goodbye vaguely. Outside, the lights of the highway glitter.

“Hey, Jon?”

Jonny looks sideways to where Patrick is standing, by the door. “Yeah?”

“Text me some more Cup stories, if you want. I could listen to Sharpy’s crazy shit for hours, man.”

It’s - _something_. It’s Patrick opening the door again. For conversation, at least. And maybe for friendship, for more?

He doesn’t dare hope. Instead, he shoots him a smile, nodding. “I will.”

 

_28th of December, 2016_

 

“So you would say that things are going well?”

“Yeah, they are.”

Jonny’s back in Camille’s office, casually slumped in one of the green velvet chairs. Two cups of tea are on the small table between them, steam rising up.

“He called me last night, we were both watching the Stars play against the Pens.”

Camille smiles. “That sounds nice. What else did you talk about?”

“Just the regular stuff,” he shrugs. “Annoying guests at the hotel, Sharpy dropping by when he was in Buffalo with the Stars. Normal things.”

“And you were okay with it? Less anxious, compared to a few months ago?”

“I felt fine,” he says. “It was just a bit tense, awkward the first few times we talked. But he’s also made an effort, starting up conversations. The feelings are still there, for me, but I’m just glad we’re talking again.”

Camille’s quiet for a second, pondering his words. “Would you,” she starts, “feel comfortable telling him?”

“About my feelings?” he asks. At her nod, he shifts in his chair. “I don’t know, I - I don’t think he feels about me the same way.”

“He could,” Camille suggests. “Over the past few weeks, you’ve described how your relationship has been evolving. Patrick’s become someone you can call a friend, rather than an acquaintance. While he’s not present in your life physically, you two are talking on the phone and via text. Him feeling the same way about you is not a far-fetched thought.”

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “It’s not like we’re discussing our deepest thoughts with each other. We’re really just talking about our jobs and the people we work with.”

“But the conversations are important to you.”

“They are.”

“It’s been months, and he’s still calling you at the end of his workday. So what’s keeping you from assuming your conversations are important to him as well?”

Jonny rubs the palm of his hand against his jaw, contemplating Camille’s words. “I never thought about it like that,” he admits. “But you’re right.”

“When are you heading up to Buffalo again?”

“December fourth,” he replies. The date’s been circled in black and red on his planner.

Camille hums, giving him an encouraging smile. “Consider it - telling him some of those deepest thoughts you’re having. He might think and feel the same way.”

Jonny gives her a small smile. “Maybe he does.”

 

\--

 

While he’s expecting to see Patrick again - his inbox is filled up with messages from him about the game tonight - he doesn’t expect to see him so soon.

He’s getting off the bus, the cold Buffalo wind hitting him in the face. While he stands around with the team, waiting for the baggage compartment to be opened, he suddenly sees him.

Patrick is standing next to some of the other hotel staff, talking to them and standing by to help the team with their bags. It’s reminiscent of the very first time they met, but more than a handful of years have passed since then. Patrick’s not wearing a suit, but he still looks as composed and qualified as ever in his soft looking gray sweater and dark blue slacks. His wool coat hangs open, moving in the wind.

Their eyes meet across the parking lot, and his heart jumps when Patrick’s smile widens in recognition. Jonny weaves his way through his teammates, Patrick also walking towards him.

“Hi,” he says, once they’re standing opposite each other in the middle of the parking lot.

“Hey,” Patrick smiles, pulling Jonny in closer. It’s a friendly hug, one of his hands patting Jonny’s shoulder blade as he steps back. “You guys are earlier than I thought.”

“Yeah, everything went really smooth,” Jonny nods. “Good to see you, thought you’d still be in that meeting with your parents?”

“They rescheduled it.” Patrick makes an offhanded gesture. “Which is good, because I have to leave around seven tonight, so I won’t be here when you guys get back.”

“Oh.” Jonny presses his lips together, pushing his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“But since you’re early, we could go get a drink at the bar right now? No alcohol of course,” Patrick offers, a cheeky glint in his eyes.

Jonny is relieved, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll just grab my bag.”

“Nah, don’t bother. I’ll ask Cassie to take your bag up to your room,” Patrick says, taking a glance at his watch. Jonny doesn’t know much about watches, they’re not his type of thing. But seeing the quick flash of gold on Patrick’s wrist, he knows it must be expensive. “Dinner for you guys will be served in about an hour, so let’s go. I gotta hear the rest about that idiotic gift you got David for Christmas.”

“Hey!” Jonny protests. “He loved that ceramic bee nester.”

Patrick decisively turns around, sauntering off in the direction of the hotel entrance. Jonny grins and catches up to fall into step next to him.

 

\--

 

“Hold up, I haven’t even told the worst part yet,” Patrick sputters, while Jonny grins into his nearly empty glass of apple juice. “She actually kept me locked in there, telling them that I was unavailable. She literally stole my most important guests while I was fighting off an assault by fur coats in the wardrobe!”

Jonny chokes on his last sip, struggling to keep it all inside his mouth while he laughs.

“Don’t laugh,” Patrick exclaims, his voice hitching. “She got a three hundred dollar tip from them. That was my money! She literally just showed them to their car and they pressed those bills into her hands as if she’d personally dug out their baby from the snow.”

Jonny smothers his laughter behind his hand, taking in the affronted look on Patrick’s face. “Come on,” he soothes, grinning. “She’s your youngest sister. Three hundred dollars is a lot at that age.”

“It’s not about the money, it’s about the principle.” Patrick shakes his head, but he fails to hide his fond smile as he also downs the last of his drink. “I told Erica about it and she said Jacks had done the same thing to her in Toronto a while back. Pretty sure those guests were royalty, too - and Jacks just made off with a huge tip that she spent in two hours, flat.”

“She’s inventive,” Jonny shrugs, more than a little impressed. “The life of a broke college student can be tough. Not that I would know.”

Patrick sends Jonny a deadpan look. “She’s a Kane. From the second she was born she was basically being swaddled in Dior. No, she’s doing this kinda stuff to spite me.”

Jonny grins, warmth spreading in his chest when Patrick’s mouth curls up in a small smile.

He loves this. It’s almost like he’d been suffering from a physical ache that he hadn’t realized he was having, until Patrick and his smile and his stories had made it go away. Sitting here, just two barstools down from where they had their first, real conversation years ago - it makes him feel whole, at ease.

Being up close to him makes him remember just how intelligent, animated, and hilarious Patrick is. He can be snobbish, but it’s never in a malicious manner. It’s part of his personality, part of what makes him exude his personality of a businessman. He demands the best because he knows it can be delivered. And yes, he was born into it, but he works hard for it, too. He knows the inner workings of the hotel like no one else, because he’s worked at every possible level since he was a teenager. Patrick’s friendly quips to the barman tell him that Patrick knows who his employees are, regardless of whether they clean the carpets or bring room service up to the rooms.

They haven’t discussed what happened last time, yet. Just the memory sends a spark of arousal down his belly, picturing Patrick’s flushed face as he’d jerked off onto his chest and stomach. And with the way Patrick’s sitting - legs spread wide, their knees knocking together every once in a while - Jonny’s having a little trouble concentrating.

He realizes he has to say something. There’s no way that he can let a guy this perfect for him, this right for him, just pass by. So while Patrick takes off on another story about one of his sisters, Jonny’s trying to figure out how to broach the subject. They’ve already touched each other’s dicks, how hard can it be to ask Patrick out on a date? To ask him whether he’d like to check out Winnipeg - for a possible hotel, even, as an excuse.

“--and my mom was just not having it,” Patrick says, snickering at the memory. His phone suddenly buzzes, moving a little on the bar. “Oh, wait, that’s for something I gotta do real quick.”

He slides off of his barstool and holds his hands up to Jonny, “Three minutes, tops. Two if I don’t have to yell at anybody.”

Jonny laughs, nodding. “Sure, go. Be the boss.”

“You know I am,” Patrick retorts, pushing his tongue in his cheek and giving him a grin that’s almost filthy.

It makes him snorts, shaking his head a little as Patrick walks away. He turns back in his seat, scratching at the apple-shaped label on the bottle. Patrick’s phone starts buzzing again, moving against Jonny’s wrist. He reaches up a hand to push it away, but the lit up screen catches his attention.

Behind an endless list of notifications is a picture of Patrick, wearing a Blackhawks beanie. His eyes are bright and his lips are red. He’s cheek to cheek with another man, whose dark hair is covered in snowflakes. A row of straight, white teeth makes up his smile. There’s no mistaking it for a friendly photo, as pressed close as they are. Both of them look sickeningly happy into the camera.

He’s pretty sure he stops blinking, still staring at the screen even after it goes dark again. His brain goes numb, something close to dread clutching a fist around his heart. He tears his eyes away and keeps them fixed on the small torn-off pieces of the label on the bar. There’s a lump in his throat and he swallows hard.

He catches the end of a question and looks up. “Hm?”

The bartender is standing in front of him, looking at him with pity and confusion. He has his hands in his side and gestures at the rips of paper Jonny’s gathering around the bottle. “You, uh, want a new one?”

“Oh, sorry. No, thank you.” Jonny lets go of the bottle and hands it to the bartender. He gathers up the paper in the palm of his hand, dropping it into his empty glass.

Patrick enters the bar again, pushing the door open. He rolls his eyes at Jonny when he sits back down on the barstool. “Okay, so that took some more explaining than I thought it would. Anyway, where were we?”

Jonny bites down on the inside of his cheek, holding it between his teeth. Patrick has a boyfriend. The realization suddenly makes Patrick’s behavior all clear. He’d been relaxed and easy-going all evening, not seeming even slightly bothered by what had gone down between them the last time. It all makes sense now. If he’d ever been in the same place as Jonny’s been for the past few years - he has obviously moved on now. The six-foot something guy on his phone is clear evidence of that. He’s not bothered by the reminder that they’d had sex, he probably didn’t even care when it happened.

He knows he should be happy for Patrick. Patrick’s got it all, a swanky job, a great body, a good set of brains, and a pretty face. The fact that he hadn’t settled down until now is just an inch short of a miracle. The boyfriend must be quite something, to be able to land himself with a Kane. _He’s probably some Harvard douche,_ he thinks, bitterly.

It’s glaringly obvious now what a stupid idea it would’ve been to tell Patrick about his feelings. Yeah, he’s got money, more than he knows what to do with - but so does Patrick. If it all boils down to it, he’s a closeted bi athlete whose food in the refrigerator keeps expiring and whose house plants keep dying because he’s hardly ever at home. They won’t be able to hold each other’s hands outside of his apartment. And there definitely won’t be any cute pictures of them wearing beanies at the park in the snow.

“I, uh, should go,” Jonny says, trying to give Patrick a smile. It probably looks more like a grimace. “There’s some plays I still have to discuss with my lineys for tonight’s game.”

“Oh.” Patrick’s face falls. He takes a look at his watch. “I mean, it’s twenty minutes until dinner. You can’t discuss it then?”

“No.” Jonny shakes his head, even though he’d love to sit with Patrick, just for a little longer. But what will it bring him? Nothing good, that’s for sure. “It’s something I gotta show on my tablet and the rules don’t allow electronics at the dinner table. Team spirit, talking together instead of everyone on their phones, you know how it’s like.”

Patrick nods slowly. “Yeah, uh, I get it.” He stands up from his barstool and holds his arms open. “Guess that’s it then - good luck for tonight’s game.”

Jonny steps into the hug, registering the feeling of Patrick’s body so close against his own. “Thanks. See you next year. Have a good night, Pat.”

Patrick purses his lips, averting Jonny’s eyes. “You, too. Bye, Jon.”

“Bye.” He doesn’t suppress the urge to hold his hand a little longer on Patrick’s shoulder, lets himself squeeze down for a second.

Then he lets go.

 

_13th of April, 2017_

 

Their contact gradually fades out. After seeing him in Buffalo in December, he kept trying for a while and they kept messaging back and forth. Still, he realized that moving on from Patrick did not involve phone calls and Skyping. While he felt great during their conversations, it was always harder after. So he became good at making up excuses for not picking up the phone when Patrick called. Eventually, the texts came further apart - both of them only discussing hockey games. He’d have to scroll back up for a long time to find the last time they talked about anything remotely personal.

It hasn’t taken away the urge to call Patrick as soon as he realizes that the Hawks aren’t reaching the playoffs. He doesn’t call, but he wants to. It’s not a surprise, not really. The season had been rocky from the start, but he’d still thought - with every game - that they would turn it around and reach the playoffs anyway.

His flight to Winnipeg is leaving tomorrow morning, so he busies himself with cleaning up his apartment. He leaves Rianne, his housekeeper, to clean up and clear out the kitchen, while he tries to push his gameday suits into the back of his car. They’re all put into suit bags but he still winces when he pushes the door shut, all of the bags jumbled together on the backseat.

The drive to the dry cleaners is short and he parks his car in front of the door. With his arms full of his suits, he crosses the curb to the door. As he walks up, though, he notices the sign on the door. It cheerily announces that _Greener Cleaner_ has moved two blocks up. A whiney grunt leaves his lips, and he turns around, shoving all of his suits back into the car with even less care than before.

When he gets to the new location, it’s not very busy. The owner, Richard, helps him get his suits out of his car. He shakes his head and tuts, “This isn’t how you treat Armani, Jonathan.”

“I know, I know,” Jonny acknowledges, sighing a little as he drops his suits on the counter. He bends down over the form, filling it in and scribbling his autograph on the dotted line at the bottom. “Do whatever you normally do to get them back into shape. I’ll let you know if Rianne comes to pick them up, or if I do.”

“Alright,” Richard nods, taking the paper from him and filing it away. “Have a good summer.”

“Little too long for my taste.” Jonny pulls a face but he gives Richard a one-shouldered shrug. “But thanks. See you around.”

“See ya.” Richard waves him off before concerning himself over the state of Jonny’s suits.

The bell above the door rings as he leaves the shop, and he steps back out onto the street. His car is parked by the 15-minute standing zone, so he quickly walks over. _Greener Cleaner_ definitely moved over to a busier part of town, cars and busses whipping by. He’s got a hand on the door to the driver’s side, looking around to see if he can open it without a motorcycle driving into it. And that’s when he sees it.

There’s a newly constructed building across the street, glass panels reflecting the sunlight. Above the shiny revolving doors it reads - _Kane Regency Chicago._

Traffic keeps racing past him but Jonny is frozen still. His heart stutters as he tries to keep his sight on the sign above the doors. He dazedly moves away from the street, back onto the curb. It’s still there, the platinum letters reading out the name of the hotel. The noise of the pedestrian traffic light shakes him out of his stupor, and he makes his way through the throng of people. He’s only a few steps away from the door now, and he can hear the sounds of clanging and drilling coming from inside. An elegant looking sign next to the doors tells him the grand opening will be on the first of June.

A construction worker carrying a large panel of wood almost barges into him, as he’s effectively blocking the entrance to the hotel.

“Sorry,” Jonny breathes, darting his eyes back up to the sign above the door. The revolving door is still spinning and he feels his feet move. He steps through the door, into the lobby of the hotel.

Around him, workers are soldering metal together and furniture is being carried around. The granite floor is covered in a layer of dust. He leaves footprints on it as he moves further into the lobby.

“Can I help you?”

Jonny turns, meeting the face of Erica Kane. He’s seen her pictured in suits on the cover of magazines and in fuzzy pajamas on Patrick’s phone. It’s jarring, seeing her like this, in real life.

“Are you supposed to be here?” Erica asks, looking down at her tablet and scrolling through a list.

“No, I’m not. I just…” Jonny stops, wondering why he even walked in here. “Is Patrick around? I’m a friend.”

“A friend?” Erica looks up again. She seems to take in his face this time, because recognition flashes in her eyes. “You’re Jonathan Toews.”

“Yeah, I am.” Jonny scratches the side of his head, shrugging. “I saw the sign and I just thought, I don’t know. I thought maybe Patrick would be here, too.”

“He is.” Erica points over her shoulder. “He’s right there.”

Jonny’s eyes follow the direction of where she’s pointing at. Patrick is standing on the small steps leading to an elevated part of the lobby. He’s in a suit, but he’s wearing a yellow vest and a white construction helmet. It’s clear he’s in the middle of a discussion with a few workmen, pointing a yardstick at a blank space on the walls across from him.

Patrick must somehow feel the eyes on him, because he turns his head and meets Jonny’s gaze across the lobby. Jonny can’t make out the expression on his face, but Patrick’s handing the yardstick to one of the men and makes his way down the steps.

“Jon?” He says, once he’s come closer. His voice carries a tone of bewilderment. “How… Why are you here?”

Jonny shuffles a little, feeling the focus of two sets of Kane blue eyes on him. “I was dropping off some clothes across the street. Just as I was about to get in my car, I saw the building. I didn’t know you were opening a hotel in Chicago.”

Patrick ducks his head a little, worrying his teeth across his bottom lip. He exchanges a quick look with Erica, who smirks. “I’ll give you two some time to catch up,” she says, pointedly, before walking off.

“Did you know you were going to open a Chicago location? Back in December?” Jonny asks. He can’t figure out why Patrick would keep something like this from him.

“The building was in construction, yeah,” Patrick nods, still not meeting Jonny’s eyes for longer than three seconds at a time. “My parents told me on New Year’s Eve that they’d like me to run the place.”

Jonny’s breathing halts in his throat. Patrick as a manager - _in Chicago_. He catches the flush on Patrick’s cheeks, hiding underneath the stubble on his jaw. It’s hard for his brain to process what this all implies, so he blurts out, “You’re moving here?”

“Yeah, uh,” Patrick gestures in the air. “My apartment’s on the top floor of the building. The hotel will take up the first twenty floors and we’re renting out the other twenty. ”

He doesn’t know what to do with that information, staring off into the space just above Patrick’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, hating the vulnerable tone that creeps into his voice. “You know I would’ve - you, in Chicago,” he stammers, cutting off the sentence with a shake of his head.

Just as Patrick opens his mouth to reply, a loud, ear-piercing noise from the concrete saw fills the lobby, echoing against the walls. Jonny presses his hands against his ears. Patrick’s also covering his ears, but Jonny can make out what he’s yelling by reading his lips. _Follow me._

He does, walking behind Patrick as he makes his way towards the elevators. Patrick holds up a pass to a small box on the wall, and one of the elevators opens. They get inside, and wait for the doors to close. When the elevator starts to move, Jonny takes his hands away from his ears.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Pretty sure I went deaf, just then.”

“Sorry. We’re supposed to hand out headphones to everyone in the building, but I didn’t realize to give you one right away.” Patrick gives him an apologetic look.

“It’s fine,” Jonny says, making a throwaway motion with his hand. He looks up at the floor numbers flying by above the elevator doors. “Where are we going?”

“My apartment,” Patrick says, also keeping his eyes on the floor numbers. He’s taking off the yellow vest and the helmet, putting them down on the carpet below his feet. “It’s the only floor in this building where there’s no hammering, lasering, or sawing happening at the moment.”

The doors open with a soft _ding_ , and Jonny follows Patrick out of the elevator. There’s only two doors on opposite ends of the hallway, and Patrick moves towards the left one. It opens easily and Jonny steps inside the apartment. It’s blissfully quiet and clean compared to the mayhem downstairs, and he lets himself move further into the apartment. It’s bright, sunlight streaming in through the glass windows that encase the space. The open floor plan is set up beautifully, with a large kitchen and a comfy-looking sitting area. It already looks pretty lived in. There’s a fluffy blanket thrown over the back of the couch, papers and pens strewn across the hardwood dinner table and various house plants placed on side tables and on the floor. It’s homey.

He looks to the side and catches Patrick looking at him intently. Clearing his throat, he manages a smile. “It looks very nice.”

Patrick gives a small nod, placing his phone on the marble counter top of the kitchen island. He lets out a chuckle, bracing his hand against the counter. “My first place that doesn’t consist of a mismatching arrangement of IKEA furniture.”

Jonny takes another look around, taking in the way the blue splashes of color on the paintings on the wall match the cushions on the couch and the stripes of the plant pots. While it does seem inherently Patrick, he doubts whether he’d put it together himself. He swallows, meeting Patrick’s eyes again. “Did the boyfriend put it all together like this?”

A confused furrow forms above Patrick’s brows. “Boyfriend?”

“Last time, back in December. I saw a picture of you two on your background when your screen lit up.” He knows his face must betray him so he averts his eyes when he says, “He looks nice. Handsome.”

It’s silent for a bit, and he watches two birds on the deck outside, pecking at a feeding dish. Maybe the boyfriend will be here soon, if he hasn’t already moved in. He could come back from work while Jonny’s still here, and he’d have to watch him kiss Patrick on the lips, asking him, _who’s your friend?_

“He is nice,” Patrick eventually says, an indiscernible tone to his voice. “And handsome, too. But he’s not my boyfriend anymore.”

Jonny looks up, feels his fingers twitch. “He’s not?”

“No,” Patrick shakes his head. His eyes are gentle. “We broke up in January, when I told him I was going to move to Chicago.”

“Oh. He didn’t want to move to Chicago?” Jonny asks, ignoring the sound of his rushing blood in his ears. _They broke up, they broke up, they broke up._

“I didn’t ask him to come.” Patrick thrums his fingers on the counter top, looking at it. “Chicago, my life in Chicago - it’s been a picture in my head for a long time. He didn’t feature in it.”

“And what does?” He almost doesn’t ask the question, scared of what the answer could be.

Patrick lets out a soft, breathy laugh, shrugging a little. “Many things. Jacks is gonna go to the U of C after the summer, so she’s in the picture. As is my job as manager, shopping on the Magnificent Mile, the ability to go to Hawks and Cubs games every once in a while, eating a deep dish pizza after a long day of work.” He looks up, the corner of his mouth wavering. “And you.”

Jonny meets Patrick’s eyes, something tingling in his chest. “Me?” he asks, his voice shaky, disbelieving.

“Yeah,” Patrick nods, biting at his lower lip for a second. “You’ve been in that picture the longest, really. Everything else, just fell into place later.”

“You…” Jonny starts, the word coming out slowly. Patrick wants him. Has been wanting him. “Since when?”

Patrick gives a shrug, his expression betraying that he feels as untethered as Jonny does right now. “Since you wandered into the lobby on your late-night insomnia stroll.”

Jonny breathes in shakily. “Pat, that was years ago.”

“Yeah, well, you’re an easy man to fall in love with, Jon.”

The words grind everything around them to a halt. Patrick is in love with him. He’s been in love with him, possibly even longer than he’s been in love with Patrick. In all the dreams, fantasies he’s had about Patrick over the years, he never took this possibility into consideration. Because it wasn’t realistic, too out-there and detached from reality, even for his imagination.

“And I get that you don’t feel the same way,” Patrick says, but it seems to hurt him, saying those words out loud. “I tried moving on, dating Rick, but it just - nothing measured up to you. Even if we only saw each other for a few hours, tops, once a season, it meant more to me than anyone else could.”

“I do feel the same way,” Jonny blurts, not being able to take the offended tone out of his voice. How can Patrick think he’s alone in this? That he hasn’t been in love with him for years, too? He takes in the way Patrick’s eyes widen in surprise and shakes his head. “God, I can’t believe you never realized. Even if I tried to tell myself that I couldn’t, I searched you out almost every time. I was upset for nearly a month when I got that concussion and couldn’t make it out to Buffalo that year. When I was holding up the Cup at Soldier Field two years ago, I was thinking about you. You, more than anyone else, made me realize that hockey is not enough. Not anymore.”

Patrick’s eyes are wide, and he brings up a hand to his jaw. “Jonny, I…” he cuts off, his throat moving as he swallows. There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes, a smile forming on his lips.

Jonny steps closer, stopping right in front of Patrick. He brings a hand up, cupping the side of Patrick’s face. Their mouths are inches apart when he mutters, “I liked you back when you were eating Cheetos at four in the morning with your feet up on the desk, right up to when you became a manager, walking around the hotel looking as if the world hadn’t seen nothing of you yet.”

Those words seem to be enough to convince Patrick, because he brings up his hands to the collar of Jonny’s shirt. He yanks him in for the last few inches, crashing their lips together for their first kiss in years.

It’s even better than he remembers it, Patrick’s pushy side coming to the forefront again as he moves them against the wall. Jonny opens his mouth on a breath when his back connects with the wall behind him. He feels Patrick’s tongue move along the seam of his lips, asking for permission. He opens his mouth a little more, pleasure moving down his spine when his tongue connects with Patrick’s. It’s a dirty kiss, Patrick pushing his body against Jonny’s as if he wants to get them even closer together. A frustrated noise bubbles up between them, and Jonny doesn’t know if it was him or Patrick, but then Patrick’s hands find themselves underneath his shirt. His fingertips are cold as they move across Jonny’s warm skin, leaving tingles of want in their wake.

Patrick’s mouth leaves his in a kiss, wetness smearing across Jonny’s cheek as Patrick ducks his head to get to Jonny’s neck. His toes curl when Patrick’s lips find the sensitive spot below his jaw, sucking at the skin. Patrick’s hands have moved to his back, where they’re slipping lower to cup his ass through the fabric of his pants. He both hears and feels the moan Patrick mouths against his neck, his fingers digging in.

“God,” Patrick breathes, his lips slick against Jonny’s skin. Goosebumps break out in the nape of his neck. “You feel good, Jon - fucking perfect. Wanna do so much to you.”

The words make Jonny’s cock jump, fattening up inside his briefs. The kiss had made him harden, but Patrick saying how much he wants him, that gets him there completely.

“C’mon then,” he pants, his own hands clenching around Patrick’s hips before moving to Patrick’s stomach. His fingers bump against the buttons on Patrick’s shirt and grapples at the fabric, yanking the lapels from Patrick’s pants.

Patrick gives a low chuckle at that, hands slipping beneath Jonny’s waistband. He squeezes at the cheeks of Jonny’s ass, and Jonny feels the hardness of Patrick’s cock rub against his own.

“Careful with my shirt,” Patrick mutters against his lips, when he starts pulling impatiently at the buttons. He gives Jonny an obnoxious grin. “It’s Gucci.”

“It’s gotta _be on the floor_ ,” Jonny snips, letting out a happy breath when the last button gives way. He moves his hands across Patrick’s chest, pushing Patrick’s jacket and shirt off in a swift move.

Leaning his head against the wall, he lets himself look. Patrick’s clearly in shape, the muscles in his stomach moving with his breathing. His arms look strong, and Jonny slides his hands up to Patrick’s biceps, moving them down to the veins in Patrick’s forearms. He’s imagined this, ever since that time Patrick had boxed him in against the wall in the conference room. Patrick’s arms on each side of his head as he looms above him, pushing his cock inside him slowly, their eyes never moving away from each other. The thought makes a shiver of heat run down his spine.

“Want you,” he mutters, tugging Patrick in by the grip he has on his forearms. As cold as Patrick’s fingers always seem to be, his upper body is solid warmth against his own.

“Me, too,” Patrick breathes against the side of his face, angling their bodies together. He rubs his groin against Jonny in a suggestive rhythm, moving his hips. “What do you want?”

He feels his cheeks burn, moving his hands down Patrick’s back to his ass. He can feel the muscle clench underneath his hands, Patrick still grinding against his cock. “You, fucking me,” he says, pulling back to meet Patrick’s eyes. “Now.”

Patrick’s eyes darken, and he brings up his thumb to Jonny’s bottom lip. “I happen to have a bed that could use a christening. Then again, the whole apartment does, too.”

Jonny rolls his eyes at the teasing smile Patrick gives him. “Lets start with the bed,” he says, grabbing Patrick’s wrist and pushing himself away from the wall.

“It’s this way,” Patrick says, clearly trying to keep a straight face as he almost lets Jonny pull them into the wrong room. He covers Jonny’s wrist with his free hand, moving him along to another room.

It’s big and spacious. The large bed is against the wall, opposite the glass windows overlooking the center of Chicago. Jonny lets Patrick tug him towards the bed, lying down when the backs of his knees touch the frame. Patrick bends down to pull of both of their shoes, before getting back up.

“God, you look--,” Patrick trails off, moving up Jonny’s body slowly and helping take his shirt off. Jonny watches as Patrick throws the shirt somewhere across the room.

They get undressed gradually, stopping for kisses after every piece of clothing. Patrick is sucking a hickey above the waistband of Jonny’s briefs, before tugging it off completely. Heat curls in his stomach when he sees Patrick’s eyes on his cock, Patrick’s thumb moving across his hip bone.

“Remember when I sucked you off?” Patrick asks, eyes flying up to meet Jonny’s. There’s a flush on his cheeks. He briefly moves to the side of the bed, taking out lube and a condom from the drawer of his side table.

Jonny widens his legs, his fingers twitching in anticipation. “I remember.”

“You were so hot,” Patrick mutters, kneeling in between Jonny’s legs. He curls his hands around Jonny’s knees, pushing them up. Jonny moves his own hands down, holding his legs up, spreading himself for Patrick.

“C’mon,” he whispers, feeling impatient. He takes a glance at Patrick’s cock, fat and hard. It curls against Patrick’s stomach.

“Relax,” Patrick soothes, squirting out a dollop of lube across his fingers. He warms it up, rubbing his fingers together. Sliding a hand up and down the inside of Jonny’s thigh, he leans down.

The first touch of Patrick’s slick finger against his whole makes Jonny start, but he lets his muscles relax against the bed. “Tell me more,” he says, “about that moment.”

Patrick smiles, pressing a kiss against the inside of Jonny’s knee. “You were gagging for it. I remember how slick the head of your cock was when I first put it in my mouth. Just the taste made me go crazy.”

Jonny groans, remembering how it felt to push his cock in Patrick’s warm mouth. He feels Patrick’s finger push inside him, slowly moving around, going in and out of his hole. It’s not entirely unfamiliar since he’s fingered himself often enough over the past years. But this is Patrick, these are his fingers currently circling and pushing at Jonny’s hole. The thought makes him arch his back, Patrick’s finger slipping in deeper.

“Fuck, Jonny, your body,” Patrick says, eyes fixed on where his finger is pushed into Jonny’s hole. He adds a second finger, pushing it in next to the other one.

His ribcage rises and falls with every breath, and he keeps his eyes on Patrick’s face. “You were so good at it,” he whispers, remembering how Patrick had sucked him down. “I was so jealous, thinking I was just an easy fuck for you.”

“You _were_ easy--ow!” Patrick laughs at the swat Jonny aims at his head. “Anyway, you couldn’t have been more jealous than I was at that moment. With your stories of Chicago twinks jerking you off in toilet stalls, gagging for NHL dick. I just wanted to erase any thought of them from your mind, leave my own mark.”

“There never were,” Jonny gasps when Patrick pushes in a third finger, crooking them against his prostate. “There never were any twinks, I just made you think there were. You were my - fuck - my first.”

Patrick’s eyes widen before they darken again, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Jonny’s prostate. “You mean that? I was the first to see you like that, ‘s that why you were so needy?”

“Fuck,” Jonny breathes, his hands getting clammy in the crooks of his knees. Patrick’s moving his fingers steadily in and out, fucking him with his hand. “It was you. Of course I was needy.”

“Jonny.” Patrick’s voice almost takes on a whining tone, his free hand tightening on Jonny’s hips. “Wanna get inside of you.”

“Yeah, c’mon,” Jonny nods, taking his hands away from his knees. He pulls Patrick in close by his biceps, hooking his legs around Patrick’s hips.

Patrick’s cock bobs against Jonny’s skin, leaving a wet streak of pre-cum on the inside of his thigh. He opens the condom wrapper for him, while Patrick moves his hand around for the bottle of lube. They roll the condom on Patrick’s cock, and he can’t resist to move his hand up and down a few times, feeling the weight and the heat of it in his palm.

The extra lube around his hole is cold but he hardly notices, watching Patrick slick himself up and bring his cock down to his hole. Jonny hitches up his hips a little higher, tightening his legs around Patrick’s waist.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous like this,” Patrick mutters softly, as if he’s mostly talking to himself. He has one hand on Jonny’s leg, the other holding the base of his cock as he pushes it against Jonny’s hole.

The blunt pressure is a lot, especially when Patrick starts pushing it in. Jonny bites down on his lip, feeling the head of Patrick’s cock pop inside, the slick of the lube easing the way. He can feel himself adjust to the girth of Patrick’s cock, clenching down around it. When the stretch is manageable again, he gives Patrick a small nod. Patrick still goes slow, leaning down on his elbows when he bottoms out inside of Jonny.

“Ungh,” Jonny moans, feeling Patrick’s hips flush against his ass. He’s completely filled up with Patrick’s cock. His own cock is stiff, lying against his stomach. He gives it a few pulls, the spikes of pleasure giving him a brief distraction from the fact that Patrick’s inside of him.

“Fuck, Jon.” Patrick’s eyes are tracking the movements of Jonny’s hand on his cock. He licks across his bottom lip, his cock twitching a little inside of Jonny. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Jonny gives him a quick nod. “You can move.”

The first drag of Patrick’s cock out of his hole is unlike any feeling he’s had before. It’s like his body doesn’t want to let go, sucking Patrick’s cock back inside when he pushes back in. Patrick goes slowly at first, the heavy weight of his cock stretching Jonny with every thrust.

When the head of Patrick’s cock bumps against his prostate, Jonny feels his body seizing up with pleasure. He scrambles at the covers, curling his fingers in the fabric. He vaguely hears Patrick curse above him, before adjusting himself to the angle and pushing in again. The sparks start clouding his vision and he closes his eyes. He feels the tickle of Patrick’s hair against his forehead, Patrick leaning over him as he moves his hips quicker. It’s amazing, the push and pull of Patrick’s body so close against his own.

Drops of sweat drip down his temple and Patrick leans down, capturing his mouth in a quick kiss. He’s breathing hard against Jonny’s mouth, tension visible in his stomach and his arms. He pulls back, giving Jonny one of those show-stopping smiles. It feels intimate, though, the flash of happiness in his eyes, like it’s just for Jonny.

“You feel so fucking good,” Patrick pants against his lips. The sound of his hips slapping against Jonny’s ass is loud between them. “Perfect for me.”

Jonny smiles, feels the pleasure go liquid and smooth inside of him with the way Patrick is looking at him. He crosses his legs at his ankles, pulling Patrick in closer. With less room to move, the length of Patrick’s cock stays locked in his hole on every thrust.

The pressure starts building in his stomach and he feels his balls tighten every time Patrick manages to push against his prostate. It’s different from when he’s getting himself off, the urgency of it coming sudden and unexpected.

“Pat,” he breathes out, his hands slipping across Patrick’s shoulder bladers. He’s been scratching him up, he’s sure, but it only seems to spur Patrick on.

“What is it, babe?” Patrick pants, pushing the heel of his palm against the base of Jonny’s cock. “Gonna cum on my cock for me? Wanna jerk yourself off?”

A whiney noise escapes between his teeth and he nods, bringing his hand down to start pulling at his cock. Patrick’s eyes are fixed on his movement, trying to match the rhythm of his thrusts. It works, his stomach tightening every time Patrick hits his prostate and he circles the head of his cock with his fingers.

“Fuck, I’m gonna--”

“Do it,” Patrick nods, pushing in his hips rapidly, losing the rhythm.

Patrick’s encouragement and the pressure of his cock inside of him is what makes Jonny lose it, hurrying over the edge. Cum spurts from the head of his cock in long ropes, covering his chest. His hand shivers as he moves it up and down the length, the last few drops dribbling from the head. He lets go with a grunt, his heart beating fast in his chest.

“Jesus,” Patrick groans, dropping his head in the crook of Jonny’s neck. He makes a choking sound. “Fuck, Jonny, so pretty for me.”

He feels Patrick’s orgasm come before Patrick does, feels it in the stutter of his hips and the tightening of his stomach against Jonny’s. Patrick moans against his skin as he cums, his cock twitching in Jonny’s hole, filling up the condom.

They stay like that for a second, panting and breathing in each other’s breath. Patrick’s dropping kisses against Jonny’s neck, soothing his lips against the hickey he’d sucked underneath Jonny’s jaw. He moves his own hands up and down Patrick’s back, willing himself to come back down to earth.

Patrick brings his head up, and presses his lips against Jonny’s. “Love you.”

Jonny smiles against Patrick’s mouth, pulling back a little to look Patrick in the eye. “Love you, too.”

With a smile and another soft kiss against his lips, Patrick slowly pulls out of him. He moves off of Jonny’s body to get rid of the condom. Jonny curls his arms around himself, trying to keep some of the heat trapped.

Patrick’s back a few seconds later, wearing his briefs again. He gently wipes down Jonny’s chest with a warm, wet cloth. Jonny lazily lets himself roll over while Patrick cleans him up, his hole feeling hot and raw as Patrick wipes the lube away.

He lets himself close his eyes, smiling when he feels the mattress dip again under Patrick’s weight. Patrick curls up against his front, pulling his arms around him. Jonny lets his nose fall into Patrick’s hair, breathing in the scent. Something inside of him feels settled, at ease, for maybe the first time ever.

Patrick turns around in his arms and Jonny meets his eyes. “You okay?” Patrick asks.

Jonny nods, pressing a light kiss against Patrick’s cheekbone. He rubs his thumb along the stubble on Patrick’s jaw. “Yeah. And you?”

“Perfect,” Patric murmurs, ducking in for another kiss, holding Jonny in place with a hand against the back of his head. He pulls back with a smile on his lips, threading his fingers through the hairs at the nape of Jonny’s neck. It’s soothing. Jonny closes his eyes, suppressing a yawn that wants to bubble up.

“There is something, though,” Patrick whispers, the pads of his fingers moving softly against Jonny's skin.

Jonny’s almost drifting off, barely hearing him. He responds with a muttered, “What?”

Patrick holds his chin up with a finger, making Jonny open his eyes. He’s got a grin on his face.

“I think your car is being towed.”

 

 

 

 

the end.♡

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this! any type of feedback is lovingly drooled upon.♡
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://www.toewsin.tumblr.com)!


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